Called  to  the  Field 


Called  to  the  Field 

A  Story  of  Virginia  in  the 


BY 


LUCY    MEACHAM    THRUSTON 

Author  of  "Mistress  Brent,"    "A  Girl  of  Virginia," 
"Where  the  Tide  Comes  In,"   etc. 


Boston 

Little,  Brown,  and   Company 
1906 


Copyright,  /pod, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved 
Published  March,   1906 


THE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.  S.  A. 


TO 

AUGUSTA  THRUSTON 


2138617 


PREFACE 

A  the  beginning  of  an  omniverous  reading 
the  writer  recalls  striking  upon  a  sentence 
which  tersely  and  dramatically  demanded 
why  had  not  some  woman  told  the  woman's  side 
of  the  war,  meaning  that  of  the  first  years  of  the 
sixties.     Instantly  there  formed  before  her  mind 
the  tales  to  which  she  had  often  listened,  the  stories 
which  followed  upon  the  "  Do-you-remembers " 
whispered  by  the  fireside,  and  before  which  folk- 
lore and  fairy  tale  had  paled. 

The  writer  who  asked  that  question  has  since 
brilliantly  depicted  the  adventurous,  man's  side  of 
the  question ;  another  has  lovingly  and  faithfully 
painted  Virginia's  share  and  burden  :  still  for  these 
and  all  others  battle  scene  and  soldiers'  blood  have 
formed  the  theme.  These  have  never  seemed  to 
the  writer  the  dominant  note,  —  neither  they  nor 
loss  of  fortune  nor  blight  of  politics,  —  but  the 

vii 


PREFACE 

days  and  months  and  years  of  the  women  left 
behind  when  the  men  were  "  Called  to  the  Field." 

Such  this  story — which  is  not  a  tragedy,  only 
a  love  tale,  with  the  laugh  and  the  sigh  which 
the  master  passion  presses  ever  close  together  — 
depicts,  and  into  it  is  woven  the  big  woods,  the 
"  forest,"  loved  and  awe-inspiring,  a  drive  out  to 
which  meant  to  the  writer's  childhood  two  or  three 
miles  along  a  sandy  road,  with  the  sparkle  of  the 
broad  river  behind  one,  a  climb  up  steep  clay  hills 
to  higher  grounds,  great  hills  covered  to  their 
heights  with  pine  and  chestnut  and  poplar,  with 
patches  of  velvety  moss  at  their  feet ;  and,  were 
it  early  summer,  flushes  of  pink  and  white  ivy 
(elsewhere  called  laurel)  rolling  between  the 
brown  rough  trunks ;  or,  earlier  yet,  in  springtide, 
breadths  of  arbutus  spread  their  bloom  wide  as  a 
city  square, — no  scanty  roots  and  handful  of  small 
blossoms  with  elusive  perfume,  but  rich  clusters 
of  glowing  pink  or  tinted  white,  with  a  luxury  of 
odor  floating  up  to  one's  face,  mingled  with  the 
clean  smell  of  brown  leaves  and  pine-chaff,  and 
resinous  new  tips  and  tassels  upon  the  pines. 

Sparkling  streams  ran  between  the  hills  and, 
as  one  splashed  through  them,  vistas  of  green 
meadows  and  bending  rushes  and  purple  flags 
viii 


PREFACE 

opened ;  still  steeper  hills  with  gullies  worn  down 
their  faces ;  and,  at  last,  the  top  of  the  ridge,  and 
"the  forest."  One  could  not  yet  tell  why  it  should 
be  so  called,  for  cornfields  and  orchards  and  houses 
were  on  either  side.  But  some  few  miles  on,  by 
the  Dragon,  the  headwaters  of  the  Piankatank, 
one  came  upon  the  bordering  of  the  woods.  Of 
these  this  tale  is  told. 

LUCY  MEACHAM  THRUSTON. 


13? 


CALLED  TO  THE  FIELD 


I  TURNED  my  cheek  upon  the  hollow 
of  my  arm,  curved  on  the  low  window- 
sill.  The  sun  was  swinging,  round  and 
red,  above  the  distant  pines,  and  the  golden 
light  lay  on  the  brown,  fresh-ploughed  fields 
beyond  the  yard  and  the  white  ribbon  of  the 
lane  which  led  out,  between  fields  and  woods, 
to  the  wide  country  road  a  mile  away.  The 
scent  of  the  upturned  earth  and  of  green 
grass,  of  budding  leaves  and  newly  opened 
violets  was  abroad.  The  cherry  tree,  huge 
and  shadowing  and  ruling  half  the  yard, 
lifted  a  white  cloud  of  bloom  into  the  soft 
spring  air;  the  buzzing  of  the  bees  about 
the  scented  blossomings  was  a  part  of  the 
rhythm  of  low  winds  and  bending  grasses 
and  tossing  branches.  I  drew  a  long,  ecstatic 
breath.  The  spring-tide  was  in  my  heart  as 
well  as  in  the  world.  The  cotton  gown, 
i  i 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

fresh  and  dainty,  which  I  wore,  was  the 
blossoming  in  which  I  had  clothed  myself, 
as  the  cherry  put  on  its  white  petals ;  and  I 
was  as  dreamful  as  the  day  when  I  thought 
of  Robert,  of  his  pleasure  at  this  gay  dress 
with  which  I  would  astonish  him  when  he 
came  home.  But  how  late  he  was ! 

I  got  up  restlessly  from  the  chair  and 
wandered  to  the  door.  Daddy  was  coming 
from  the  fields,  the  plough  rope  hanging 
loosely  about  his  neck,  the  share  scraping 
along  the  road,  and  the  tired  mule  plodding 
with  drooping  head.  Through  the  back 
door  of  the  hall,  wide-open  likewise,  I  could 
see  Dick  driving  the  cows  into  the  milking- 
lot.  It  was  very  late,  Robert  must  be  com- 
ing; I  would  go  and  meet  him. 

I  took  down  my  sunbonnet;  my  knitted 
mitts  hung  beside  it,  but  after  a  second's 
pause  I  put  both  back  on  the  pegs  and  hur- 
ried out.  The  sun  was  too  low  to  burn  even 
a  tender  skin,  and  the  touch  of  the  wind  on 
neck  and  cheek  was  a  joy. 

The  rose-bush  by  the  single  low  step  was 
thick  with  odorous  leaf-buds,  jonquils  shone 

2 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

in  their  long  leaves  by  the  pathway,  the 
dandelions  were  set  like  gold  in  the  lush 
grass. 

In  the  road  I  met  Daddy.  "  Well,  Daddy," 
I  began,  intending  some  trivial  talk ;  but  he 
cut  me  short. 

"  Lawd,  Miss  Lucy,  what  is  you  doin' 
'dout  yo'  sunbonnet  ?  fus'  thing  you  know, 
you  '11  be  all  freckled  up  same  lak  a  tukky- 
aig." 

Now  this  tender  skin  of  mine  was  a  sore 
point  to  me.  Left  to  myself,  bonnet  and 
gloves  would  be  forever  discarded  ;  but  the 
whole  household  from  Robert  down,  through 
Daddy  and  Mammy  to  Dick,  was  a  house- 
hold guard  for  beauty.  I  was  never  allowed 
to  forget. 

"  What  Marse  Robert  say  now  ?  "  queried 
Daddy,  as  he  rested  his  plough-point  for  a 
moment  and  jerked  at  the  reins.  "  Whoa 
dyar !  you  's  in  a  pow'ful  hurry !  if  you  jes 
had  showed  a  little  o'  dis  disposition  long 
'bout  fo'  'clock  you  'd  a'  finished  dat  fiel'. 
What  Marse  Robert  gwine  say  ? "  he  re- 
peated to  me. 

3 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  Nothing,"  said  I,  shortly.  "  I  don't  need 
anything  on  my  head ;  it 's  near  sunset  now. 
I  wonder  what  keeps  Robert !  " 

u  I  dunno,  chile,  't  ain't  nuthin'  to  worry 
'bout.  Ain't  you  gwine  back  now  ? " 
"  No ;  maybe  I  '11  meet  him." 
"  Bettah  not  go  beyon'  de  woods." 
The  restless  mule  was  hurrying  on  to 
stable  and  his  supper ;  Daddy  followed  per- 
force; I  loitered  on  down  the  road.  Every 
moment  I  thought  I  should  see  Robert  rid- 
ing out  of  the  dusky  woods  and  waving  his 
hand  gayly  at  sight  of  me.  I  went  on  and 
on  with  slow  footsteps.  I  would  not  turn 
back  now;  the  house  was  far  behind  me; 
the  breadth  of  brown,  ploughed  land  on  either 
side  grew  less  and  less,  and  the  gloom  of  the 
pines,  the  sound  of  their  soft  sighing  was 
nearer  and  nearer.  Here  the  ploughing 
ceased,  and  a  strip  of  land,  yellow  with  thin 
sedge  and  set  with  saplings,  made  a  border 
land  between  field  and  forest.  The  saplings 
were  tipped  with  the  pink  or  green  tassels 
of  new  growth,  the  resinous  smell  of  them 
was  strong  in  the  air;  before  me  the  pines 

4 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

loomed   dark    and   sombre    in    the   waning 
light.     Should  I  venture  on  ? 

I  stood  listening,  when  I  heard  the  blessed 
click  and  slam  of  the  upper  gate,  and  then 
the  rhythmic  sound  of  hoof-beats.  I  knew 
Lady's  trot  as  I  knew  Robert's  footsteps ;  in 
a  moment  they  would  be  in  sight,  out  of  the 
forest. 

I  stood,  laughter  dimpling  my  face,  and 
then  in  a  flash  crouched  out  of  sight  behind 
a  well-rounded  sapling  by  the  roadside.  Peer- 
ing eagerly  through  the  green  needles,  my 
eyes  looked  straight  into  two  black,  unwink- 
ing ones ;  a  song-sparrow,  flattened  on  her 
nest,  kept  anxious  guard ;  I  smiled  into  the 
tiny,  frightened  eyes,  but  whether  I  gave  her 
courage  I  know  not,  for  out  of  the  woods 
rode  Robert,  and  I  swooped  out  and  at  him. 
Lady  swerved,  but  he  sat  true,  and  when  I 
looked  for  hearty  laughter  I  won  only  a 
smile. 

"  Robert,  you  are  so  late  ! "  I  cried. 

"  Want  a  ride  ?  "  he  called. 

"  Of  course."  The  laughter  came  back  to 
my  lips. 

5 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  Jump  up ! "  He  stiffened  his  foot  in  the 
stirrup  and  leaned  down.  I  reached  for  his 
hand  and,  touching  his  foot  for  a  second, 
sprang  up  on  the  horse  before  him,  where 
I  cuddled  close  as  Lady  walked  sedately 
homeward. 

"  Any  letters  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  One." 

"  Where  is  it  ?  " 

"  In  my  coat  pocket,  just  under  your  head ; 
here,  wait ! " 

"  Oh !  it 's  from  Emily."  I  tore  open  the 
envelope  hastily.  "  What  a  long  one  !  "  as  I 
saw  the  crossed  and  recrossed  pages.  "  I 
shall  have  to  read  it  after  a  while ;  and  here 
is  the  song  she  promised  me.  We  will  sing 
it  after  supper.  Take  the  letter,  I  can't  read 
it  now."  I  folded  it  up  in  some  sort  of 
fashion  and  thrust  it  back  in  Robert's 
pocket. 

"  Any  news  ?  "  I  asked,  but  he  made  me 
no  answer. 

Lady,  carrying  her  double  load,  went 
slowly.  The  sun  was  out  of  sight  behind 
us,  but  the  mellow  light  flooded  woods  and 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

fields  —  and  home.  Leaning  against  Robert, 
looking  toward  it,  I  knew  how  dear  it  was, 
how  dear  he  was. 

"  There  's  a  great  freckle  on  your  nose," 
said  Robert  irrelevantly. 

"  Nonsense ! " 

"  It  has  come  there  since  I  left." 

"  The  idea !  " 

Robert  laughed  as  he  leaned  and  kissed 
me  between  the  eyes.  Then  he  noticed  my 
new  gown.  "  Why,  what  is  this?  "  he  began, 
and  I  made  indignant  protest  against  his  not 
observing  it  the  instant  we  met.  But  the 
quarrel  was  not  severe.  When  he  lifted  me 
from  the  horse  at  the  gate,  I  refused  to  be 
dismissed  and  followed  along  the  road  which 
curved  by  the  yard,  past  the  garden,  to  the 
stables.  My  own  fingers  slipped  Lady's 
bridle  while  Robert  unfastened  her  saddle- 
girth,  and  in  the  corn-house  I  piled  my  arms 
with  the  yellow  ears  for  her  manger.  I 
talked  to  her  as  I  put  them  before  her,  her 
great  eyes  watching  me  as  I  moved  about. 

"  Has  she  been  led  to  water?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  let  her  drink  at  the  swamp." 
7 


CALLED   TO   THE   FIELD 

"  Then  good-night,"  I  called  to  her  gayly 
from  the  stable  door.  "  Come  on,  Robert." 

"  Don't  wait  for  me ;  I  '11  be  there  soon." 

"  But  supper  is  ready,  I  know." 

"  All  right,"  he  answered  absent-mindedly, 
as  I  went  singing  along  the  way  to  the 
house.  I  saw  Mammy  watching  from  the 
kitchen  door,  and  I  saw  Dick  by  her  side 
waiting  to  bring  in  the  supper.  They 
turned  away  when  I  was  near  the  yard  gate, 
but  I  hastened,  my  lips  pressed  tightly 
upon  the  laughter  bubbling  within.  Inside 
the  gate  I  began  to  run;  I  was  afraid  I 
should  be  too  late.  I  raced  around  the 
house,  and  stood  closely  pressed  in  the 
chimney  corner  by  which  Dick  would  come 
with  his  dishes.  I  heard  the  patter  of  his 
bare  feet  on  the  hard-beaten  path.  As  I 
peeped  out  at  him,  he  was  eying  the  plate 
of  biscuits  in  his  hands ;  he  shifted  it  to  one 
hand,  pounced  on  a  brown  biscuit,  and,  quick 
as  a  flash,  shut  his  big  mouth  on  it.  I  gave 
a  hollow  groan  from  my  corner. 

"Oh,  Gawd!  Gawd  A 'mighty ! "  his 
screech  rang  out  all  over  the  place. 

8 


CALLED   TO    THE    FIELD 

"  You,  Dick !  "  Mammy  called  from  the 
kitchen,  "what's  de  mattah  'long  you?" 
Her  heavy  footsteps  hurried  toward  us  as 
Dick  stood  helpless  and  agape.  "  What ! 
whar  's  dem  biscuits  ?  'Fo'  de  Lawd !  "  as 
Dick  pointed  with  shaking  fingers  to  the 
empty  plate  and  the  bread  scattered  in 
the  path.  "  Ise  gwine  lambaste  you  well. 
Ghos' !  ghos' !  I  lay  you  '11  see  wuss  dan 
dat  befo'  I  gits  through  wid  you.  What ! " 
Mammy  herself  recoiled  at  sight  of  the 
huddled  white  figure  at  the  chimney's  side 
where  I  was  doubled  up  almost  crying  with 
delight.  "  Miss  Lucy ! "  she  quavered,  and 
then  she  comprehended. 

"  I  jes  promised  dat  boy  a  good  whuppin'," 
she  declared  indignantly,  "  but  I  don't  mean 
to  totch  him.  'T  is  yo'  own  fault,  an'  if 
you  has  to  eat  cohn-bread  fer  supper,  you 
eats  it." 

I  was  sobered.  "  Mammy,"  I  asked  anx- 
iously, "  are  n't  there  any  more  biscuits  ? 
Robert  never  will  touch  corn-bread." 

"  Dyar  's  jes  a  few  in  de  skillet,  an'  Marse 
Robert 's  gwine  hab  dem  sho." 

9 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  That 's  all  right ;  Dick,  come  here !  " 
He  had  stolen  up  behind  Mammy,  and  stood 
hanging  his  head  sheepishly  and  digging  his 
bare  toes  into  the  earth.  "  You  can  eat 
them  all."  I  gave  him  a  comprehending 
glance,  but  if  his  black  skin  could  have 
shown  a  blush  it  would  not  His  face  was 
one  huge  grin. 

"  La,  Miss  Lucy,"  Mammy  began. 

"  Give  them  every  one  to  him ;  let  him 
have  enough  for  once." 

Dick  was  instantly  on  all  fours,  gathering 
up  the  brown  biscuits  lovingly,  and  blowing 
the  dust  from  them. 

"  Miss  Lucy,"  began  Mammy  again,  and 
then  she  must  have  concluded  I  was  hope- 
less. "  Ain't  you  nebbah  gwine  grow  up  ?  " 
she  demanded  as  if  in  despair.  "  Hyar  you 's 
been  married  five  months,  an'  I  'clare  to 
goodness  I  don't  see  no  change  in  you  at  all." 

"  Why  should  you  ?  "  I  asked  carelessly,  as 
I  skipped  out  of  the  corner  and  on  the  green 
grass.  I  whirled  my  stiff,  billowy  skirts,  sank 
into  a  "  cheese "  courtesy,  and  bobbed  up 
again.  "Why  should  you?" 

10 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

But  the  wrath  had  died  out  of  Mammy's 
face.  "  Lawd  bless  you,  chile,"  she  said 
softly,  "may  you  allus  feel  jes  as  happy 
as  you  looks  now.  De  Lawd  knows  I 
hopes  it." 


ii 


II 


WHEN  I  looked  at  Dick  that  night 
waiting  solemnly  on  the  supper 
table  my  mouth  twitched;  when 
he  caught  my  eye,  were  he  near  Robert's 
chair,  where  he  persisted  in  standing  in- 
stead of  in  his  proper  place  behind  me,  he 
grinned  from  ear  to  ear. 

As  for  Robert  he  ate  his  supper  in  un- 
wonted silence.  Dick  passed  him  the  bis- 
cuits assiduously;  he  never  once  placed 
them  in  reach  of  my  fingers,  but  what  cared 
I?  Batter-bread  and  broiled  ham  and  ome- 
let were  enough  for  me.  I  ate  a  hearty  meal 
and  went  with  joyous  heart  and  light  step 
across  the  hall,  into  the  chamber,  where  a 
small  fire  was  kindled  on  the  hearth. 

I  brought  out  the  candle-stand  flattened 
against  the  wall,  straightened  the  top,  but- 
toned it  securely  in  place,  and  put  the  lighted 
candle  upon  it.  From  the  closet  I  got  an 

12 


CALLED   TO    THE   FIELD 

armful  of  fleecy  cotton  and  the  carders,  and 
sat  down  in  my  low  chair  by  the  hearth  with 
the  white  drift  at  my  feet.  I  was  proud  of 
my  industry  and  vowed  that  on  the  morrow 
I  would  spin  the  cotton  I  was  carding.  The 
pine  logs  snapped  cheerily ;  the  light  of  them 
flickered  and  flamed  on  the  bright  andirons, 
the  fender,  the  braided  rug,  and  the  floor 
scrubbed  to  shining  whiteness.  Robert,  in 
his  big  arm-chair,  smoked  and  watched  the 
flames  with  absorbed,  thoughtful  face.  I 
looked  at  him  as  I  worked  swiftly,  chattering 
lightly  while  I  did  so  of  all  the  small  happen- 
ings of  the  day.  The  drift  of  cotton  grew  at 
one  side  of  me,  the  heap  at  the  other  was 
less  and  less ;  finally  it  was  all  done.  I  gath- 
ered it  up  in  my  arms  and  carried  it  to  the 
spinning-wheel  which  stood  in  the  hall  and 
piled  it  carefully  on  the  wheel's  bench.  As 
I  went  to  and  fro  I  hummed  the  tune  of  a 
song  I  had  lately  learned,  and  suddenly 
it  reminded  me  of  the  letter  I  had  quite 
forgotten. 

"Oh,    Robert!"    I   cried,   "the   words   of 
'Lorena'  are  in  that  letter;  let's  try  it." 

13 


CALLED   TO    THE    FIELD 

I  picked  up  my  flutina  from  the  bureau 
and  began  playing  the  tune. 

"  Read  me  the  words."  But  Robert  handed 
them  to  me. 

The  first  verse  I  already  knew. 

"  The  years  creep  slowly  by,  Lorena  "  — 

I  was  in  my  flag  chair  before  the  fire,  on 
the  candle-stand  was  spread  the  sheet  of 
foolscap  with  the  fine  trailing  writing  across 
it;  my  flutina  was  on  my  knee,  and  to  its 
accompaniment  I  sang:  — 

"  The  years  creep  slowly  by,  Lorena, 
The  snow  is  on  the  grass  again, 
The  sun 's  low  down  the  sky,  Lorena, 
The  frost  gleams  where  the  flowers  have  been; 
But  the  heart  throbs  on  as  wildly  now 
As  when  the  summer  days  were  nigh ; 
Oh  !  the  sun  can  never  dip  so  low 
Adown  affection's  cloudless  sky." 

"  Why  don't  you  sing,  Robert?  " 

"  I  ? "  as  if  his  thoughts  were  miles  away, 

—  "  I,  oh,  I  'm  a  little  hoarse ;  sing  on,  I  'm 

listening." 

Robert's  bass  and   Emily's  alto  and  my 

soprano   made   a   trio   not   to   be   despised. 

Many  an  hour  we  had  spent  in  singing  song 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

after  song;  I  was  a  little  put  out  that  he 
showed  so  little  enthusiasm  over  this  one. 
I  wanted  to  learn  it  at  once,  so  that  when 
Emily  came  for  her  long  promised  visit  we 
might  know  this  new  tune  also.  So  I  sang 
on,  entranced  with  my  own  melody,  pausing 
now  and  then,  with  long-drawn  notes  upon 
the  flutina,  to  read  some  indistinct  writing 
beneath  the  candle-light. 

The  words  were  pathetic,  the  tune  plain- 
tive ;  perhaps  my  happy  heart  made  the  con- 
trast bewitching.  At  any  rate,  I  sang  on 
through  all  the  eight  verses  to  the  last:  — 

"  It  matters  little  now,  Lorena, 
The  past  is  in  the  eternal  past. 
Our  heads  will  soon  lie  low,  Lorena, 
Life's  tide  is  ebbing  out  so  fast. 
There  is  a  future,  oh !  thank  God, 
Of  life  this  is  so  small  a  part ; 
'T  is  dust  to  dust  beneath  the  sod, 
But  there,  up  there  'tis  heart  to  heart." 

The  sadness  of  the  words  seized  me,  and  I 
could  not  have  sung  another  note.  I  put 
the  flutina  back  upon  the  bureau  and  stole 
out  into  the  hall.  A  glance  backward 
showed  me  Robert,  slipped  down  in  his 

15 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

chair,  his  elbow  on  the  wide  arm  of  it,  his 
chin  resting  on  his  hand;  the  other  hand 
hung  nervelessly,  the  fingers  closed  upon 
the  reed  stem  of  his  smouldering  pipe.  Of 
what  was  he  thinking  so  intently? 

In  the  wide  outer  doorway  I  paused. 
Stars  were  thick  in  the  sky,  the  air  was 
scented  with  cherry  blossoms,  and  from 
the  distant  swamp  came  the  croaking  of 
frogs. 

The  dear  God  alone  knows  what  the 
world  He  made  has  always  been  to  me. 
There  is  companionship  in  its  voices, 
strength  in  its  beauty,  healing  in  its  silences. 
I  loitered  down  the  pathway  to  the  gate, 
and,  with  arms  folded  upon  it,  gazed  out  at 
the  long  stretch  of  fields,  black  in  the  star- 
light, toward  the  far-off  blacker  forest  rim- 
ming them.  I  came  back  around  the  house. 
From  the  door  of  Mammy's  cabin  streamed 
a  square  of  light,  'Mammy's  uncouth  figure 
swaying  in  the  midst  of  it.  I  caught  up  my 
full  skirts  to  keep  them  from  sweeping  the 
dew  from  the  grass  by  the  narrow  path  and 
ran  down  that  way. 

16 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  La,  Miss  Lucy,"  was  my  greeting,  "  why 
don't  you  walk  ?  whenebbah  you  starts,  you 
goes  lak  a  whirl  win'." 

"  What  are  you  doing,  Mammy  ?  "  I  asked, 
ignoring  her  rebuke. 

"  Ise  jes  wroppin'  up  dese  chickens  fer  de 
night.  Dat  ole  yaller  hen  is  a-hatchin',  an' 
she 's  doin'  it  lak  she  does  eberything  eben 
to  hatchin'  her  aigs,  pow  'ful  slow  an'  scat- 
terin'  lak.  Ise  got  to  tek  cyar  o'  dese  till 
she  gits  de  res'  out." 

"  Oh,  the  beauties ! "  I  cried,  as  I  slipped 
down  on  the  door-sill  by  Mammy's  side. 
Why  did  n't  you  tell  me  they  were  out  ?  " 

"Hm!  you  had  sumpin'  else  to  think  er- 
bout,  puttin'  on  yo'  new  frock  an'  prinkin' 
up  fer  Marse  Robert.  You 's  gwine  ruin 
it  now,  chile,  sho." 

I  turned  the  light  skirt  up  over  my  knees. 
"  No,  indeed  ;  give  me  the  basket !  " 

"What's  de  use?  dey's  kivered  up  nice 
an'  warm  fer  de  night." 

"  Mammy,"  I  answered  impressively,  "  they 
are  my  very  own  chickens,  the  third  brood 
that 's  been  hatched  out  at  my  own  home." 

2  17  - 


CALLED   TO    THE    FIELD 

"Yo*  own  home!  ain't  yo'  pa's  home 
your  'n  ?  I  'd  like  to  know  dat !  " 

Father's  house  was  a  stately  one.  I  sus- 
pect the  loving-hearted  darky  who  had  been 
transferred  along  with  me,  from  that  house 
to  this,  thought  a  home  in  the  backwoods 
far  too  simple  for  her  master's  only  child. 

The  thought  lent  asperity  to  my  tone. 
"No,  that's  his;  this  is  mine!" 

"  Hi-yi ! "  she  chuckled,  "  guess  Marse 
Robert  say  'tis  his." 

"What's  his  is  mine."  I  reached  an 
eager  hand  for  the  basket. 

"  Guess  Marse  Willum's  is  too,"  she 
declared  jealously. 

The  controversy  had  gone  far  enough.  I 
lifted  the  ragged  and  torn  bits  of  quilt  from 
the  sleeping  down-balls.  "  Eight !  Two 
yellow  ones,  four  speckled,  one  black  —  oh  ! 
look  at  this!  as  white  —  as  white  as  snow." 
I  took  it  in  my  hand  and  curved  my  other 
palm  over  it  softly  and  lightly.  The  chick, 
with  a  murmuring  "  peep "  of  delight,  lay 
close.  "Oh,  the  dear!" 

"  Dyar !  I  nebbah  did  see  nuthin'  lak  you 
18 


CALLED   TO    THE    FIELD 

fer  pettin'  things  in  all  my  life.  Put  it 
away,  an'  de  res'  too.  Ise  gwine  set  de 
basket  in  a  warm  cornah  by  de  hearth. 
Dick!" 

The  boy  came  out  from  the  shadows  of 
the  room ;  I  had  not  known  he  was  there. 
In  the  light  he  showed  a  black  face  be- 
smeared with  crumbs.  "  You  rascal,"  I 
cried,  "  come  out  here  and  dance.  Come 
on ! "  I  added  as  he  stood  grinning  with 
indecision. 

Dick,  with  apologetic  air,  squeezed  be- 
tween Mammy  and  the  jamb  of  the  door  and 
stood  before  me,  hitching  up  his  trousers 
by  the  single  gallister  across  his  shoulders. 

"  Come ! "  I  commanded  as  I  leaned  for- 
ward and  began  clapping  my  hands.  "  Step 
out  there !  Pshaw,  dance  lively  now ! " 

Bending  over  and  beating  my  palms  in 
time,  I  began  a  rhythmic  chant:  — 

"  Ole  black  cat  sittin'  in  de  cornah ; 
Missis  beat  him  wid  de  broom, 
He  jump  on  de  mantel-piece, 
Spill  all  de  candle  grease  — 
Walk  in,  sah,  I  '11  be  your  friend, 
Long  road  to  travel,  not  a  picayune  to  spend." 

19 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

Patter,  patter,  the  bare  feet  danced  in  time, 
the  lithe  body  swayed. 

"What's  Marse  Robert  doin' ?"  Mammy 
interrupted. 

"  '  Sittin'  in  de  cornah,'  "  I  chanted  saucily. 

"  Bettah  go  'long  talk  to  him  stid  o'  sittin' 
hyar." 

"  I  think  so  too ;  good-night,  sleep  tight." 

From  the  path  I  called,  "  I  want  some 
biscuit  for  breakfast,  Dick." 

Robert  sat  just  as  I  had  left  him.  If  he 
had  moved,  there  was  nothing  to  show 
it.  "  Don't  you  want  to  hear  Emily's  let- 
ter ? "  I  asked  for  the  sake  of  breaking  the 
silence. 

"  Why,  yes !  "  He  roused  himself  as  if 
from  a  long  revery. 

I  picked  up  the  envelope  and  looked  at 
the  superscription,  "  Mrs.  Robert  Aylett." 
The  name  was  yet  new  enough  to  rouse  a 
thrill  whenever  my  eyes  fell  upon  it,  and  I 
smiled  as  I  opened  the  closely  written  sheets 
and  began  with  the  very  date,  April  5,  1861. 
There  was  little  in  it,  and  yet  it  was  much 
to  me.  She  told  me  how  much  she  missed 

20 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

me,  —  Emily  had  been  my  nearest  neighbor 
at  my  father's  home,  —  that  my  father  looked 
lonely  and  the  house  deserted  without  me, 
which  pleased  my  vanity  mightily.  Also, 
what  I  already  knew,  that  father  was  in 
Richmond ;  and  then  such  delightful  non- 
sense as  a  sentence  or  two  on  the  warm 
and  early  spring ;  that  she  hoped  the  weather 
would  permit  her  wearing  her  new  white 
dress  to  church  the  first  Sunday  in  May. 
It  was  already  made,  had  nine  widths  in 
the  skirt,  and  was  put  to  the  bodice  with 
a  bias  piping ;  she  had  had  her  leghorn 
bonnet  retrimmed  with  white  roses  and  blue 
ribbons  and  wide  strings  to  tie  under  her 
chin ;  did  I  not  think  she  would  look  sweet  ? 
Here  were  the  words  of  the  song  she  had 
promised  me ;  and  she  was  coming  soon  to 
pay  me  a  visit;  Robert  and  I  must  learn  the 
verses  so  that  we  could  sing  them  together 
when  she  came;  and  here  the  scribbling 
ended. 

It  was  all  charming  to  me;  but  when  I 
finished  and  looked  up  for  Robert's  laughing 
praise,  he  had  fallen  into  the  same  absorbed 

21 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

quiet.  "  Why,"  I  cried  indignantly,  "  I  don't 
believe  you  even  heard  it ! " 

"Oh,  yes;  I  did." 

"  You  can't  tell  me  a  word  she  said." 

"  She  wrote  that  she  had  a  new  dress,"  he 
blundered. 

"  Robert !  "  I  pushed  his  arm  from  the  wide 
arm  of  the  chair  and  perched  myself  there. 
"  What  is  the  matter  ? "  As  he  was  silent, 
I  put  my  hand  on  his  thick,  curling,  red 
hair  and  pushed  his  head  back  so  that  I 
could  look  into  his  brown  eyes.  They  were 
solemn  and  serious  and  looked  back  at  me 
with  a  gleam  of  questioning  and  of  pity  in 
their  dark  depths,  and  his  clean-shaven  lips 
were  set  and  firm. 

"  Robert,"  I  begged  in  affright,  "  what  is 
it?" 

He  slipped  his  arm  about  me  and  pulled 
me  to  his  knee.  "  Lucy,  the  news  came 
to  The  Ordinary  (our  post-office)  to-day. 
Virginia  had  seceded !  " 

"  Seceded !  "  I  thrilled  for  a  second,  but 
for  a  second  only,  with  a  dread  of  something 
awesome,  I  knew  not  what.  It  meant  so 

22 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

little  to  me  then ;  whatever  Virginia  did  was 
right,  whatever  she  strove  to  do  would  be 
done,  —  it  was  the  faith  in  which  I  had  been 
bred,  —  and  my  head  was  against  Robert's 
shoulder. 


Ill 


IF  Robert  were  restless  that  night,  I  slept 
soundly ;  when  I  awakened,  Dick  was 
sitting  on  his  heels  before  the  hearth, 
watching  the  flames  racing  up  the  chimney. 
There  was  a  chorus  of  bird-songs  from  the 
cherry  tree,  the  prisoned  fowls  were  crowing 
and  cackling  in  the  locked  hen-house,  and 
the  cows  were  lowing  in  the  milking-lot.  I 
lay  still,  listening  to  the  familiar  sounds,  my 
hand  stolen  where  it  could  feel  Robert's 
deep  breathing  as  he  slept. 

"  I  done  brought  yo'  watah,"  said  Dick,  as 
soon  as  he  heard  a  stir  from  the  bed. 

I  lifted  a  warning  finger  from  the  covers 
and  he  tiptoed  away.  I,  too,  tiptoed,  as  I 
stole  about  my  toilet.  Robert's  sleep  was 
too  deep  and  peaceful  to  disturb,  but  I  had 
to  hurry  if  I  were  to  see  the  sun  rise  above 
the  pines  behind  the  house. 

The  touch  of  the  cold  spring-water  set  me 
wide-awake  and  tingling  to  the  finger  tips. 
24 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

I  slipped  into  my  numerous  skirts  and  swung 
the  glass  between  its  round  posts  in  the 
mahogany  bureau  so  that  I  could  see  to 
brush  my  wilful  hair,  which,  despite  all  its 
smoothings  low  about  my  ears  and  its  close 
coiling  at  my  neck,  would  crinkle  and  curl 
and  show  disorderly  before  the  last  pin  was 
in  it. 

With  uplifted  hands  I  was  twisting  the 
heavy  mass  into  primness,  when  I  heard  a 
stifled  yawn  and  a  sleepy  "  Lucy ! " 

I  pretended  I  had  heard  no  sound,  but  the 
dimples  in  my  cheeks,  which  the  looking- 
glass  reflected  for  him  as  well  as  for  me,  and 
my  lips  a-quiver  with  suppressed  merriment 
belied  me  ;  in  a  second  I  heard  another  and 
more  decided  "  Lucy !  " 

My  toilet  was  finished  ;  I  whirled  in  mock 
amazement.  "  Well,  you  are  a  lazy-bones  !  " 

Robert  smiled  back  at  me.  "  Come  here ! " 
he  commanded. 

I  walked  over  as  if  in  slow  reluctance. 
When  he  could  reach  me,  he  drew  my  head 
down  to  his  breast,  where  I  could  feel  his 
heart  beat  and  held  me  so  a  second  silently. 

25 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

Then,  "  Gracious  !  "  I  cried,  "  you  '11  get  my 
hair  all  mussed  up ! "  and  I  sprang  away. 
"  You  are  as  lazy  as  can  be,"  I  accused  from 
the  doorway. 

The  hall  doors  were  open,  as  they  had 
been  all  night;  the  red  sun  came  swinging 
up  above  the  solemn  pines  ;  the  wheat  field, 
the  pasture,  and  the  fringe  of  growth  about  its 
gurgling  streams  showed  tender  green ;  the 
grass  was  heavy  with  sparkling  dew.  It  was 
but  the  beginning  of  another  such  happy  day 
as  I  had  known  months  of  —  so  I  thought. 

I  was  off  with  Robert  to  the  barn  as  soon 
as  breakfast  was  done  ;  I  rode  Lady  to  water, 
Robert  walking  by  my  side ;  and  when  Robert 
had  gone  to  work  in  the  fresh-ploughed  land, 
when  he  had  started,  hoe  upon  shoulder,  to 
plant  corn,  I  still  lingered  about  the  fringes 
of  the  field ;  it  was  such  fun  to  hear  Daddy 
protesting  against  Robert's  city-bred  igno- 
rance. But  their  work  took  them  further  and 
further  away,  the  soil  was  too  heavy  for  even 
me  to  venture  over,  I  had  no  top  boots  and 
too  many  skirts  ;  so  I  left  them  reluctantly. 

At  least  I  could  watch  them.  I  pulled 
26 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

my  wheel  out  into  the  hall.  The  wind  was 
so  soft  and  light  it  scarcely  rippled  my  thread 
as  I  started  the  cotton  on  the  spindle  and 
set  the  wheel  a-humming.  As  I  stood,  and 
the  whirling  of  the  wheel  made  soft  music, 
and  the  thread  lengthened  under  my  hands, 
I  could  see  the  bees  buzzing  about  the 
cherry  blossoms  and  hear  a  mocking-bird 
trilling,  and  an  anxious  hen  clucking  to  her 
young  brood.  I  looked  out  at  yard  and 
fields  and  the  far-off  figures  wistfully,  lazy 
loitering  was  so  enticing;  but  that  morn- 
ing's spinning  was  the  last  I  needed,  to  have 
thread  enough  to  carry  to  Miss  Nancy,  our 
neighbor  far  back  through  the  pines,  who 
was  the  most  skilful  weaver  in  the  county. 
Her  help  was  rarely  to  be  had,  and  by  favor 
only ;  but  she  had  promised  that,  if  I  would 
bring  her  thread  of  my  own  spinning,  she 
would  weave  it  into  cloth,  fine  and  smooth 
and  even,  as  all  her  work  must  be,  for 
Robert's  shirts.  When  I  should  have  cut 
them  out,  tucked  and  felled  and  fashioned 
them  with  my  own  stitches,  how  proud  I 
would  be!  So  I  worked  on. 

27 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

The  sunlight  streamed  upon  the  low, 
broad  sill  of  the  door,  came  creeping  along 
the  hall,  stole  close  to  my  feet ;  a  pungent 
smell  floated  from  the  kitchen  chimney,  and 
I  knew  that  Mammy  had  freshened  the  fire 
for  cooking  dinner,  that  pots  were  being 
swung  across  the  wide  hearth,  and  skillets 
were  being  put  in  readiness. 

Two  broaches  of  thread  were  wound  upon 
the  corn-cobs,  and  the  third  was  growing 
rapidly ;  the  wheel  hummed  faster  and  faster. 
My  work  was  more  and  more  absorbing, 
the  fascination  of  the  outside  world  grew 
less ;  my  back  had  been  turned  to  the  lane, 
but  stooping  to  pick  up  the  broach  which 
had  rolled  from  my  hand,  I  faced  that  way 
and  saw  a  horseman  riding  down  the  road. 
He  spied  Robert  in  the  field  and  pulled  up 
to  wait  for  him.  It  was  Henry  Latham,  and 
I  called  to  Mammy  to  warn  her  of  a  guest 
to  dinner,  but  she  did  not  hear.  I  pushed 
my  wheel  back  against  the  wall,  gathered 
up  my  cotton  and  thread,  put  them  in  the 
closet,  and,  shaking  the  soft,  white,  cling- 
ing stuff  from  my  skirts,  hurried  out  to  the 

28 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

kitchen.  As  I  did  so  I  saw  the  men  coming 
slowly  houseward,  Henry  riding  sidewise  so 
that  he  could  face  Robert,  who  walked  with 
his  hand  upon  the  horse's  mane.  They 
were  talking  earnestly. 

"  Mr.  Latham  has  come,"  I  told  Mammy 
at  the  kitchen  door ;  "  he  is  going  to  stay  to 
dinner,  I  know.  They  are  going  around  to 
the  stable  now.  You  had  better  get  out 
some  preserves,  and  that  pound  cake  which 
has  just  been  cut  into." 

We  spent  some  time  in  housekeeping  talk ; 
still,  when  I  went  back  to  the  house  I  thought 
the  men  were  yet  at  the  barn.  My  foot- 
steps, light  and  quick,  made  little  sound  on 
the  path,  but  before  I  put  foot  on  the  step  I 
heard  a  low  but  distinct  voice  from  the  cham- 
ber. It  was  Henry's,  and  the  words  he  said 
left  me  trembling  in  a  heap  on  the  door-sill. 

"  I  tell  you,  Robert,"  —  the  voice  was 
cruelly  insistent,  —  "you  must  enlist." 

"  I  cannot."  The  answer  was  short  and 
curt. 

Enlist !  Robert  enlist !  How  had  Henry 
dared  to  name  it  ? 

29 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  You  must." 

"Must?" 

"  Or  be  judged  —  you  know  how." 

"  I  am  afraid  of  no  one's  opinions." 

"  That  is  easy  to  say,  but  you  can  imagine 
what  it  would  mean  to  live  here  and  run 
counter  to  everything  the  people  think  right, 
and  your  wife  —  " 

"  God,  man !  don't  you  know  it  is  for  her 
sake  that  I  am  not  going  ? " 

"  You  mean  you  will  go  for  her  sake." 

"  I  mean  what  I  said." 

"  She  could  be  left  with  her  father." 

"  I  shall  take  care  of  her  in  her  own  home." 

"  Pshaw !  your  theories  are  too  fine-spun  ; 
they  savor  of  —  " 

"  What  ?  "  I  had  not  dreamed  there  was 
any  such  tone  of  fierceness  in  Robert's  voice. 

"  Ah,  well !  of  cold-bloodedness,  say." 

"  As  you  please." 

This  verged  too  close  upon  a  quarrel. 
Henry  was  Robert's  staunch  friend;  they 
must  not  be  allowed  to  disagree,  though,  for 
a  second,  I  hated  Henry  Latham  with  all  my 
heart.  I  half  rose  to  go  in,  when  Robert's 

30 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

voice  sent  me  to  my  seat  again.  I  had  no 
thought  of  eaves-dropping,  but  this  was  too 
vital ;  I  must  hear. 

What  Robert  had  said  was,  "  A  man  never 
knows  how  far  back  to  go  for  his  motives. 
You  have  heard  of  my  father  ?  " 

Henry  doubtless  made  some  gesture  of 
assent ;  his  voice  was  not  heard.  For  me,  I 
bit  my  lip ;  I  had  heard  of  his  father,  and 
heard  nothing  to  his  credit.  The  very 
knowledge  I  had  of  Robert's  childhood 
made  me  but  love  him  more.  Young  and 
childish  as  I  was,  I  felt  some  queer  convic- 
tion that  I  must  make  up  for  mother  and 
father,  sister  and  brother,  be  sweetheart  and 
wife  —  if  ever  there  were  a  possibility  of  all 
these  loves  in  one  —  to  my  lonely  hearted 
husband ;  or,  rather,  that  I  must  love  him 
enough,  make  the  atmosphere  of  affection 
about  him  strong  enough,  to  make  up  for 
the  early  lack  of  it  that  he  had  known. 

"  You  know,"  went  on  Robert,  speaking 
very  calmly  and  clearly,  "  that  he  spent  all 
of  his  own  fortune  and  my  mother's  too, 
when  once  they  had  moved  to  New  York. 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

I  knew  nothing  but  luxury — until  he  died. 
My  mother  had  died  four  years  before. 
When  I  began  to  learn  something  of  our 
affairs  I  found  —  well,  I  paid  the  debts,  and 
I  had  not  one  thousand  dollars  left.  I  knew 
nothing  really  of  New  York.  We  lived 
there,  mother  and  I,  apart  from  it.  When 
she  died  it  was  the  same,  so  far  as  my  keep- 
ing to  myself  was  concerned.  As  for  my 
father's  friends  —  they  were  not  the  sort 
either  she  or  I  cared  for." 

In  all  the  time  I  had  known  Robert  I  had 
not  heard  this  much. 

"  I  had  some  friends,  —  not  intimate,  you 
know,  but  friends,  after  a  sort;  boys  I  had 
known  at  school." 

He  paused  as  if  he  sought  for  words  to 
tell  the  tale  the  better. 

"  When  I  began  to  face  what  I  should  do, 
I  had  but  one  thought,  —  home  !  That  was 
what  we  always  called  it,  mother  and  I, — 
what  we  called  Virginia.  In  all  her  long  ill- 
ness she  talked  of  it.  She  begged  my  father 
to  bring  her  dead  body  back,  to  bury  her, 
at  least,  under  the  old  locust  trees  of —  I 

32 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

can't  talk  of  it  yet.  She  is  buried  in  New 
York,  a  city  cemetery.  Some  day  I  shall 
bring  her  here. 

"  When  I  came  home,  if  state  and  soil  can 
make  a  home,  I  bought  this  place  cheap, 
because  it  is  in  the  backwoods  ;  the  few  hun- 
dreds I  had  left  went  to  make  a  payment,  to 
buy  stock,  and  to  furnish  the  house  for  a 
bachelor's  home." 

"  You  did  n't  stay  a  bachelor  long."  Henry 
spoke  lightly,  yet  with  a  break  in  his  voice, 
as  men  will  do  when  they  try  to  cover  their 
emotions  with  commonplace  speech. 

"  No ;  perhaps  I  was  not  wise  —  " 

I  sat  bolt  upright,  the  heat  of  indignation 
flushing  me. 

"  Perhaps  I  was  not  wise,  as  fortunes  go, 
but  is  it  not  wise  —  Man,  I  have  known 
what  it  is  to  be  happy,  HAPPY.  Do  you 
know  it  ?  " 

"No!" 

Indeed  ;  not  happy  ?  I  should  tell  Emily, 
then  — 

I  heard  a  chair  push   back  and   Robert's 
step  as  he  moved  about  the  room  restlessly. 
3  33 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  Happy,"  he  went  on,  "  happy  as  I  have 
never  dreamed." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  but  I  had  no 
intention  of  moving  now.  When  Robert 
spoke  again  his  voice  was  clear  and  distinct. 
"  Perhaps  you  don't  know  that  I  am  deeply 
in  debt." 

"  You  have  married  the  daughter  of  a 
wealthy  man  ? " 

"  And  never  touched  a  dollar  of  his 
money,  nor  will  I ;  he  would  not  so  insult 
me." 

"  Some  men  would  not  call  it  that,"  Henry 
chuckled. 

"  He  knows  what  I  think,"  declared  Robert, 
stoutly.  "  Last  year  the  crops  were  good ; 
still,  the  payment  I  could  make  was  small,  a 
little  over  the  interest." 

"  Spent  your  money  in  getting  mar- 
ried ? " 

"  Spent  it,"  said  Robert,  with  a  low  laugh, 
"  to  buy  Paradise." 

How  I  loved  him  for  it !  I  clenched  my 
hands  about  my  knees,  hugging  them  and 
holding  myself  still.  The  desire  was  so 

34 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

strong  to  run  to  him  and  kiss  him  for  that 
speech  —  but  there  was  Henry. 

"  If  crops  are  good  this  year,  and  things 
promise  well,  so  far,  —  the  wheat  is  thick 
and  flourishing,  —  with  reasonable  luck  —  " 

But  some  sense  of  propriety  had  come  to 
me  at  last.  I  got  up  and  stole  away  with 
tender  love  and  pity  in  my  heart  for  Robert, 
but  wrath  for  Henry.  To  dare  to  come  and 
insist  that  Robert  should  enlist,  and  for 
what?  I  was  too  great  a  home  body  to 
know  much  of  the  country  talk,  but  what  I 
had  heard,  did  it  not  belittle  this  trouble? 
There  might  be  some  battles  fought,  it 
was  acknowledged,  but  few  and  soon  ended ; 
then  let  those  who  wished  fight  them. 

I  met  Henry  somewhat  stiffly  at  the  dinner 
table,  but  he  was  gracelessly  at  ease,  and  as 
blithe  as  if  he  had  not  come  to  my  home 
with  treachery  in  his  heart;  he  was  even 
barefaced  enough  to  cloak  his  purpose  with 
an  invitation. 

"  The  county  militia  is  ordered  to  Rich- 
mond," he  announced ;  "  the  ladies  will  give 
them  a  ball  at  the  tavern.  They  sent  a 

35 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

message  to  The  Ordinary  this  morning  to 
pass  the  word ;  but  I  am  a  lazy  fellow,  I 
came  only  to  tell  you.  Jack  Martin  has 
carried  the  news  up  the  country." 

"  I  do  not  care  to  go,"  I  declared  curtly. 

"  Why,  Lucy !  "  Robert  began. 

But  Henry  went  on.  "  The  ladies  are 
asked  to  furnish  supper.  If  you  would  save 
this  cake  now,  and  if  Maria  has  a  ham, 
cooked  as  she  knows  how,  and  you  would  be 
so  good  as  to  spare  some  of  your  brandied 
peaches  and  pickles,  they  would  be  so 
glad." 

I  laughed  at  his  assurance,  but  I  was  mol- 
lified, and  answered  with  the  eagerness  of  a 
young  housekeeper  anxious  to  give  her  best : 

"  I  will  pack  them  up  in  a  basket  and  you 
can  carry  them." 

"  I  am  going  on  horseback." 

"  Oh,  well !  "  I  stammered  in  disappoint- 
ment. 

"  Lucy,  we  can  go,  of  course."  Robert 
decided  the  matter. 

Mammy  was  delighted  to  be  called  upon 
to  cook  for  a  festivity;  perhaps  I,  too,  was 

36 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

pleased.  Certainly  it  was  a  pleasure  to  pack 
the  well-cooked  ham  and  fluffy  biscuits,  still 
hot,  the  cake,  preserves,  and  pickles  into 
a  hamper  which  just  fitted  into  the  box 
behind  the  buggy's  seat;  nor  was  it  hard 
to  don  my  green  silk  plaided  with  black 
lines,  to  fasten  my  low  lace-collar  with  the 
cameo  Robert  gave  me  as  a  wedding  gift,  to 
tie  the  white  strings  of  my  bonnet  beneath 
my  chin,  and  to  peep  shyly  at  the  wreath  of 
tiny  orange  blossoms  fastened  where  they 
touched  the  hair  and  so  bespoke  the  bride, 
to  drape  my  white  crepe  shawl  about  my 
shoulders  while  Robert  called  impatiently 
from  the  buggy,  waiting  before  the  gate. 

It  was  delightful  to  go  spinning  down  the 
lane,  while  daylight  still  showed  the  way, 
behind  Lady,  who  was  in  fine  fettle ;  but 
not  two  miles  from  home  my  discomfiture 
began. 

Henry  met  us  where  the  road  forked,  and 
called  out  to  us  the  news  of  a  new  regiment. 
We  overtook  Jack  Martin,  who  turned  in  his 
seat  to  holloa,  "  I  enlisted  to-day." 

"  So  did  Sam  Rowen,"  called  Henry. 
37 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  And  Lem  Beatly  and  Joe  Dudley."  The 
names  flew  back  and  forth  like  shuttlecocks ; 
I  listened  in  dismay,  while  half  of  the  young 
men  of  the  neighborhood  were  mentioned. 

Jack  put  his  hand  on  his  horse's  back  and 
turned  to  face  us  as  he  rattled  off  the  list ; 
and  he  and  Henry  called  the  news  in  wild 
enthusiasm,  while  Robert  and  I  sat  silent. 

When  the  carriage  from  Oakleigh  drove 
out,  as  we  neared  the  Dragon,  the  young 
women  in  it  were  as  enthusiastic  as  the  men. 
The  cavalcade  grew.  We  crossed  the  bridge 
over  the  dark,  swift  stream  of  the  Dragon, 
and  the  trees  bordering  it,  or  standing  to 
their  knees  in  the  swirl  of  its  waters,  shut 
out  the  last  lingering  daylight.  When  we 
drove  slowly  up  the  heavy  hill  beyond,  a 
pale  star  shone  in  the  sky. 

As  we  toiled  through  the  heavy  sand, 
Robert  and  I  alone  of  all  that  gay  crowd 
were  quiet.  He  looked  anxious  and  thought- 
ful when  I  stole  a  glance  at  him ;  and  my 
heart  grew  colder  and  colder,  and  heavier 
and  heavier  within  me.  I  was  beginning  to 
understand  the  meaning  of  the  few  words  he 

38 


CALLED   TO   THE    FIELD 

had  said  to  me  so  solemnly  the  night  before ; 
but  to  understand  them  dimly. 

From  doors  and  .windows  the  lights  of  the 
tavern  flashed  out  into  the  dusk,  and  the 
huge  sign  fastened  to  the  pole  at  the  gate- 
way creaked  dismally  to  and  fro  in  the  even- 
ing wind  as  we  drove  in.  The  front  yard 
was  filled  with  carriages  and  horses ;  groups 
of  men  between  them  had  drawn  close 
together  for  eager  talk ;  the  steps  were 
thronged;  and  beyond  the  clustering  men 
we  could  see  the  flitting  forms  of  white- 
gowned  women.  Robert  had  to  drive  around 
behind  the  house,  and  when  he  had  lifted 
me  from  the  buggy,  I  slipped  into  the  side 
door.  The  wide  and  winding  stairway  came 
down  into  the  central  hall  on  which  it 
opened ;  and  descending  it  slowly,  her  hand 
on  the  rail,  her  full  skirts  rustling  about  her, 
her  head  tilted  high,  and  her  eager  eyes 
scanning  those  whom  she  could  watch  in  the 
outer  hall,  was  Emily.  I  gave  a  cry  of  joy, 
and  she  ran  down  to  me. 

"  How  did  you  get  here  ? "  was  my  first 
question. 

39 


CALLED    TO  THE    FIELD 

"  Father  had  to  come  over  yesterday,  and 
I  came  along.  I  am  at  my  aunt's.  Oh,  I 
am  so  glad  I  came  with  him ! " 

"  I  am,  too,"  I  chorused  ecstatically.  "Who 
is  here  ? " 

"  Everybody !  "  Then  a  little  curiously  and 
slowly,  "  Who  is  here  from  around  The  Or- 
dinary ? " 

"  The  Oakleigh  carriage  came  along  with 
us,  and  Jack  Martin  and  Henry  Latham," 
purposely  putting  this  name  last,  and  pinch- 
ing her  bare  arm  to  emphasize  it.  She  held 
herself  rigid  and  unresponsive ;  and  though 
I  scarcely  noticed  it  then,  I  remembered  it 
afterwards.  The  clatter  of  dishes  and  hum 
of  voices  from  the  dining-room  behind  us 
reminded  me  of  my  hamper.  "  I  must  find 
some  one  to  bring  in  my  things." 

"Oh,  you  should  see  the  tables!  Come 
on!" 

"  Not  yet." 

"And  the  dance !  Such  a  dance  as  we  are 
going  to  have !  Ned  is  here  with  his  fiddle, 
and  —  come  here !  " 

She  caught  me  by  the  arm  and  whirled  me 
40 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

away  to  a  dusky  corner  beyond  the  dining- 
room  door.  "  See !  we  are  going  to  dance 
on  it." 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  In  the  dark  nothing  was 
distinguishable. 

"  The  old  flag.  They  hauled  it  down  from 
the  court-house  yesterday.  We  are  going  to 
fasten  it  down  in  the  middle  of  the  floor." 

"  You  are  not  going  to  do  that  ? "  My 
voice  quivered  with  indignation. 

"  Indeed  we  are ! "  She  pirouetted  gayly 
on  her  heel. 

"  Why,  there 's  Bill !  "  as  a  negro  lad  came 
in  the  door.  "  Bill,  go  out  to  the  buggy  with 
Mrs.  Aylett  and  bring  in  her  basket.  I  am 
going  to  see  the  tables."  And  she  danced 
away. 

"  There  is  the  buggy,"  I  told  the  darkey, 
u  under  the  locust  tree.  I  will  be  there  di- 
rectly. Go  on ! " 

For  a  second  the  hall  was  empty.  I  caught 
up  the  folded  flag,  flung  my  shawl  over  it, 
and  hurried  after  the  boy.  I  was  only  an- 
other busy  woman  in  that  busy  crowd. 

"  Here  is  the  basket,  in  the  buggy-box,"  I 
41 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

commanded  Bill,  nervously.  "You  had  bet- 
ter hurry.  Don't  set  it  down  on  the  ground ; 
the  hounds  will  be  in  it.  Take  it  in  to  Miss 
Emily."  He  was  gone,  and  I  lifted  the  box- 
lid,  shook  in  my  bundle  of  bunting,  shut  down 
the  top  firmly,  and  hurried  after  him. 

Through  hurry  and  bustle,  through  greet- 
ings and  eager  talk,  through  music  and 
dancing,  in  spite  of  gay  strains  and  graceful 
figures,  and  the  soft  beat  of  light  feet,  it  was 
a  miserable  night.  Miserable  because  of  the 
look  on  Robert's  face ;  miserable  because  of 
the  pain  at  my  heart.  I  would  not  dance ; 
my  feet  felt  like  lead.  Robert  had  come  for 
me  at  first,  and  we  had  stood  up  opposite 
Emily  and  Jack  Martin,  —  Emily  looking  as 
like  a  white  butterfly  hovering  over  scented 
blossoms  as  a  girl  on  a  dancing  floor  could 
seem ;  but  after  that  Robert  stood  leaning 
against  the  wall  by  my  side. 

Reel  followed  reel ;  Ned  never  played  such 
strains;  the  women  seemed  bewitched;  but 
here  and  there  was  an  anxious  face.  The  sup- 
per was  a  triumph.  Couples  lingered  on  the 
stairway,  in  dark  corners;  but  nowhere  did 

42 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

I  see  Emily  and  Henry  together.     I  noticed 
and  wondered  even  in  my  dull  absorption. 

Somewhere  about  midnight  the  crowd 
broke  up,  and  we  started  homeward  much 
in  the  same  way  as  we  had  come,  but  more 
silently.  There  were  songs  from  the  Oak- 
leigh  carriage,  in  which  the  out-riders  joined ; 
but  when  they  called  for  my  soprano  I  felt 
that  a  note  would  choke  me.  I  shrank  close 
to  Robert's  side,  and  he  slipped  an  arm  about 
me  in  the  dark. 

We  could  scarce  see  the  Dragon's  ford  at 
the  first  and  shallower  stream,  nor  the  dusky 
road,  nor  the  bridge  over  the  full  current 
beyond.  A  screech-owl  somewhere  in  the 
dense  budding  woods  set  up  his  shivering 
cry,  and,  at  the  sound  of  wheels  and  splash- 
ings,  flew  further  into  the  recesses,  to  send 
his  wail  again  on  the  air. 

The  Oakleigh  carriage  turned  off  in  the 
heavy  shadows,  the  horses  took  the  steep 
hill  wearily;  and  when  we  came  out  in  the 
starlight  Jack  Martin  was  riding  slouched 
thoughtfully  in  his  saddle,  but  Henry  sat 
erect,  gazing  straight  before  him. 

43 


IV 


OUR  house  was  small,  old,  but  yet  un- 
finished.    A  wide  hall  ran  through 
it,  with  a  room  on  either  side,  — 
chamber  and  dining-room;  a  stairway,  built 
in  the  wall  led  to  two  rooms  beneath   the 
sloping  roof;  kitchen  and  cabin  were  in  the 
yard,  —  and  that  was  all. 

One  of  the  attic  rooms  was  finished  and 
furnished  for  "spare-room;"  in  the  other 
the  floor  was  laid,  the  narrow  window  filled 
with  glass,  but  the  sloping  rafters  showed 
overhead.  Some  boards  nailed  lengthwise 
above  the  floor  were  the  only  finishings  on 
the  sides,  and  from  rafter  to  rafter  were 
excellent  storage  places,  strange  cupboards 
which  one  could  lean  over  and  rummage  in ; 
walnuts  were  yet  left  in  one,  bunches  of  gar- 
den seed  in  another,  and,  nearest  the  window, 
hanks  of  wool  and  bales  of  carpet-rags  which 
I  had  pieced  together  in  the  winter.  When 
44 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

there  was  enough  to  make  a  carpet  for  the 
chamber  floor  Miss  Nancy  had  promised  the 
weaving  of  that  also. 

There,  under  wool  and  carpet-rags,  I  hid 
the  flag;  and  there  it  lay  forgotten.  For  a 
shadow  had  come  between  me  and  the  sun ; 
I  saw  the  grayness  of  it  on  Robert's  face. 

The  jonquils  died  from  the  path  border, 
the  violets  under  the  window  ran  to  seed, 
the  cherry  tree  was  studded  with  green  fruit 
and  glossy  leaves,  and  the  rose-bush  by  the 
door  showed  pink  lines  along  its  bursting 
buds ;  but  before  the  cherries  were  ripe  or 
the  roses  abloom  the  shadow  had  wrapped 
me  about. 

I  followed  Robert  closely  those  last  days. 
When  he  worked  in  the  fields  I  lingered 
near-by,  under  a  tree,  at  the  borders  of  the 
wood,  at  some  place  where  with  hands  folded 
idly  in  my  lap  I  could  watch  him,  see  him 
when  I  lifted  my  eyelids,  know  that  he  was 
near.  I  watched,  with  eyes  that  grew  weary 
of  the  strain,  the  shimmer  of  heat  above  the 
land,  the  cloud  shadows  drifting  over  it,  fly- 
ing birds  and  flocking  crows  —  and  Robert. 

45 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  You  will  be  as  good  a  farmer  as  I,"  he 
declared  one  day  as  we  came  houseward; 
"  but  that  is  bad  enough.  Do  you  know,"  he 
added  with  a  poor  attempt  at  laughter,  "  that 
it  is  really  'Zekiel  who  does  the  farming 
here?  Any  half-grown  boy  could  help  him 
as  well  as  I."  I  held  his  hand  close  and  felt 
the  hour  draw  nearer.  Far  down  in  my  soul, 
where  things  are  divined,  I  knew,  had  known 
all  along,  that  Robert  was  going  to  the  war. 
I  knew  it  from  his  tender  manner  to  me, 
from  the  laughter  which  had  died  from  his 
lips  and  from  our  lives,  from  the  anxious 
look  which  had  crept  into  his  eyes  and  grew 
there. 

"  Your  father  stays  a  long  time  in  Rich- 
mond," he  said  at  another  time. 

"  He  may  be  at  home  for  all  we  know ; 
there  will  be  a  great  deal  to  attend  to 
when  he  first  gets  back,  and  he  will  not 
be  able  to  leave  right  away." 

An  hour  later  I  saw  father  ride  out  from 
the  narrow  opening  in  the  pines.  His  horse 
came  at  full  gallop  despite  the  many  miles 
already  covered ;  his  crutch,  clasped  under 

46 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

his  left  arm,  as  he  carried  it  when  he  rode, 
hung  by  the  horse's  flank ;  and  his  right 
hand  held  the  reins.  Though  he  rode  at 
speed,  the  quick  turn  of  his  head  from  side 
to  side  told  that  his  keen  glance  took  notice 
of  all  to  be  seen ;  he  was  out  of  the  saddle 
by  the  time  I  reached  the  gate. 

"  Well,  Lucy,  well,  well !  "  as  he  hugged 
and  kissed  me  and  I  clung  to  him.  "  Where 
is  Robert?  Where  is  'Zekiel?  How  is 
everything  getting  on  ?  Pretty  well,  I  see. 
Where  are  Maria  and  that  scamp,  Dick  ? 
Who  is  going  to  take  my  horse  ?  "  He  fitted 
his  crutch  under  his  arm  and  walked  with 
the  alertness  of  a  boy  up  the  pathway  to  the 
house,  straight  through  the  hall  to  the  back 
door. 

"  Maria!  "  he  called  as  Mammy's  delighted 
face  showed  at  the  kitchen  door,  "come 
here !  Have  you  been  taking  good  care  of 
Miss  Lucy  ? "  he  questioned  when  she  had 
waddled  up  to  him,  seized  his  hand,  and 
shook  it  up  and  down. 

"'Deed  I  is,  Marse  Willum;  'deed  I  is. 
Jes  look  at  her." 

47 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  Hm  !  "  said  father,  critically,  "  seems  to 
me  she  is  sort  of  puny." 

"Lan',  Marse  Willum  — "  But  then 
Mammy  stopped.  None  of  us  had  yet  put 
our  troubles  into  words;  and  if  she  had 
made  any  guesses  Mammy  was  loyal  enough 
not  to  name  them. 

"  Where  are  your  red  cheeks,  child  ?  "  he 
asked,  pinching  me  slyly,  "  and  your  dimples  ? 
There ! "  as  I  began  to  smile,  "  don't  lose 
them.  I  don't  know  but  that  Robert's  heart 
was  lost  there.  They  are  pitfalls,  you 
know." 

"  Miss  Lucy  ain't  laugh  much  dese  days," 
ventured  Mammy,  carefully ;  "  an'  she  don't 
eat  much  neidah." 

"  You  don't  say  so  !  Whew !  Well,  I  am 
hungry  enough.  Get  the  best  supper  the 
place  affords.  Where  's  Dick?  Tell  him  to 
take  my  horse  to  the  stable,  and  bring  some 
fresh  water,  and  go  and  find  Robert,"  he 
called  from  the  chamber  door;  and  having 
taken  possession  of  us  all  he  sat  down  in  the 
easiest  chair  he  could  find  and  began  to  ask 
a  hundred  questions,  listening  to  scarce  a 

48 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

score  of  answers.  By  the  time  Robert  came 
in,  my  tongue  was  running  glibly  and  my 
laugh  was  gay  and  light.  So  father  kept  us 
all  the  evening ;  once  Robert  led  the  talk  to 
grave  topics,  but  father  shied  off. 

Even  when  supper  was  done  and  we  sat 
in  the  hall,  Robert  with  his  flag  chair  tilted 
against  the  wall,  I  on  the  step,  and  father  in 
his  rocking-chair  between  us  smoking  the 
corn-cob  pipe  to  which  he  had  helped  him- 
self from  Robert's  store,  he  kept  the  talk  to 
such  topics  as  he  chose. 

With  vivid  words  he  pictured  all  he  had 
seen.  Though  frogs  called  from  the  swamp 
and  darkness  blackened  all  beyond  the  fences 
of  the  yard,  we  walked  in  fancy  the  crowded 
streets  of  Richmond ;  we  sat  with  sober- 
faced  men  in  the  capital ;  we  shouldered  gay 
women  and  uniformed  men ;  we  heard  the 
shouts  and  saw  the  lights  of  that  day  and 
night  when  Virginia  "  went  out." 

I  sat  for  the  most   part  silent,  dreading 

some  sudden  word   which  might  bring  the 

vital  question  of   our  hearts  to  light ;    they 

were  not  spoken.     Only  when  father  hobbled 

4  49 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

to  the  door  and  shook  the  ashes  from  his 
pipe  he  asked  carelessly,  "  Robert,  what  regi- 
ment have  you  joined  ?  " 

"  None  !  "  The  answer  came  curt  and 
sharp  from  the  dark  corner  where  he  sat. 

"  No  ?  "  said  father,  lightly.  "  Well,  good- 
night !  Where  is  my  candle,  Lucy  ?  Has 
Dick  carried  fresh  water  up  to  my  room  ?  " 
So,  with  pretence  of  fussiness,  he  smothered 
all  chance  of  discussion,  took  everything  as  a 
matter  of  course,  and  wisely  went  his  way. 

It  was  the  same  in  the  morning.  There 
was  question  after  question  about  the  farm, 
remark,  criticism ;  Robert  was  trying  a  new 
venture,  and  father  must  hear  all  about  it. 

"  Planting  tobacco,  are  you  ?  Where  ? 
Out  in  the  far  field?  I  am  going  to  see  it." 
He  pushed  back  his  chair  from  the  break- 
fast table.  "  Are  you  ready  ?  " 

Robert  gave  me  a  look  of  amusement ;  we 
were  used  to  starting  our  mornings  more 
slowly,  with  a  little  longer  lingering  over 
our  meal. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  shortly. 

"  Come  on,  then.     Where  are  you  going, 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

Lucy  ?  "  For  as  Robert  took  down  his  hat 
from  the  peg  I  got  my  bonnet  and  mittens. 

"  Why,  with  you  !  "  I  declared  in  surprise. 
Of  course  I  was  going. 

"  Hm !  pretty  kind  of  housekeeping. 
Who  washes  your  dishes  ?  " 

"  Mammy." 

"  Your  mother  attended  to  hers  herself." 
I  had  a  dim  fleeting  vision  of  the  big  dining- 
room,  a  negro  boy  balancing  upon  his  head 
a  cedar  noggin  from  which  the  steam  slowly 
curled,  and  mother,  slim  and  stately,  await- 
ing him  before  a  table  where  the  china  was 
neatly  piled ;  of  her  loving  touch  on  plate  and 
cup ;  of  her  calm  voice  giving  the  orders  for 
the  day.  I  was  no  such  housekeeper.  I 
lived  as  I  pleased,  felt  a  fever  for  work  one 
day  and  forgot  all  about  it  on  the  morrow. 

We  took  the  long  path  past  the  stables, 
across  the  wheat,  now  waving  feathery  stalks 
of  fresh  deep-green,  down  a  bluff,  clothed 
with  sumach  and  sassafras  and  spice  wood, 
over  the  sparkling  stream  which  had  carved 
its  way  through  soft  soil,  and  out  to  the  far 
field.  Every  stage  of  the  farming  father 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

must  review;  the  tobacco  bed,  how  and 
where  it  had  been  planted;  how  the  land 
had  been  prepared ;  what  distance  apart  the 
plants  were  being  set,  until  I  was  tired  out, 
and  so  was  he.  In  spite  of  his  vigor  the 
hobbling  over  furrows  had  exhausted  him. 
He  threw  himself  down  to  rest  at  the  end  of 
the  row  where  'Zekiel  had  stopped  planting 
the  day  before.  A  tangle  of  bushes  grew 
there  and  one  tall  tree ;  beyond  it  the  land 
fell  away  to  a  lower  level.  Robert  stood 
near  us  looking  out  thoughtfully  over  his 
work,  and  'Zekiel,  a  basket  of  the  gray-green 
tobacco-plants  upon  his  arm,  hurried  toward 
us. 

The  morning  was  very  still.  It  was  yet 
early  and  the  wind  came  only  in  long,  fitful 
breaths,  presaging  the  steady  blow  which  by 
and  by  would  toss  the  tree-tops ;  the  red  was 
scarcely  out  of  the  east,  and  the  dense  pines 
behind  house  and  fields  cast  long  shadows 
westward. 

As  father's  eager  speech  ran  short  from 
exhaustion,  stillness  and  silence  wrapped  us, 
fitful  wind-breaths  blew  up  across  the  lower 

52 


CALLED    TO   THE   FIELD 

level,  sumach  and  sassafras  rustled  softly 
about  us,  and  overhead  the  oak  tossed  its 
new-born  leaves  of  dainty  brown  and  red. 
Suddenly  in  the  silence,  borne  on  a  longer 
and  stronger  gust,  broke  a  low,  ominous 
sound,  which  died  away,  came  again,  was 
lost,  and  then  came  booming  strong  and 
clear.  White  and  limp  I  leaned  against  the 
rough  trunk  of  the  oak.  I  could  not  have 
moved  a  muscle;  all  my  senses  were  dead- 
ened, or,  rather,  gone  to  the  strengthening  of 
two  —  I  listened  with  tense  nerves  to  catch 
the  faintest  sound ;  I  seemed  to  see  at  the 
same  instant  Robert's  face  and  father's, 
though  they  were  yards  apart. 

Both  men  had  turned  white  as  the  linen 
of  their  shirts,  but  at  Robert's  neck  the  red 
which  would  flush  his  face  already  showed ; 
I  knew  the  token  of  strong  excitement.  The 
death-like  stillness  of  the  morning  fell  once 
more,  and  then,  as  the  wind  freshened,  low 
and  long  came  boom  and  reverberation. 
Father  scrambled  to  his  feet,  fitted  his 
crutch  beneath  his  arm,  and  was  off. 
"  Come  on  ! " 

53 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"What  is  it?"  called  Robert  striding  after 
him. 

"  What  is  it  ?  what  is  it  ?  They  are 
attacking  us,  sir.  I  said  so.  I  told  them 
in  Richmond.  What  is  to  stop  them  ?  With 
their  gunboats  at  Old  Point,  what  would  be 
easier,  what  a  better  move,  than  for  the 
Yankees  to  sail  up  the  York,  take  West 
Point  and  hold  it,  to  mass  a  force  there  for 
moving  on  Richmond  ?  There  is  not  a  thing 
to  stop  it,  not  a  fort,  a  gun,  not  a  single 
damned  preparation."  Father  had  struck  a 
pace  which  took  all  our  energy  to  keep  up 
with. 

"  It  would  scarcely  be  possible,"  Robert 
protested. 

"  And  why  not,  sir  ?  They  have  burned 
the  shipping  at  Norfolk ;  this  is  the  next 
move,  and  the  right  one  too  —  for  them. 
I  warned  our  men,  I  spoke  of  it  in  Rich- 
mond. They  would  not  listen  to  me,  and 
now  here,  at  the  very  first  —  " 

He  was  scrambling  across  the  ravine  as  he 
spoke,  and  he  stopped  to  wave  his  crutch  in 
emphasis. 

54 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  What  will  become  of  us,  of  this  county  ? 
Why,  man,  we  shall  be  their  foraging  ground." 
But  he  had  come  to  the  fence  when  he  said 
this,  and  it  took  all  father's  breath  to  clamber 
over  the  rails.  Robert  helped  me  over  gravely, 
and  his  hand  tightened  on  my  arm  as  my  feet 
touched  the  ground ;  so  together  we  reached 
the  stables. 

The  horses  were  still  in  their  stalls. 
"  Bring  them  up  to  the  house  as  soon  as  you 
can,"  was  the  order,  and  I  lingered  to  give 
another :  "  Put  my  saddle  on  Lady,  and  bring 
her  too." 

I  slipped  my  riding-skirt  over  my  dress, 
while  Robert  looked  to  the  loading  of  the 
gun  which  had  stood  night  and  day  in  the 
corner  behind  the  bed  ;  and  when  he  and 
father  came  out  I  was  already  mounted. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ? "  Robert  de- 
manded, his  brown  eyes  wide  with  astonish- 
ment, a  sparkle  of  indignant  vexation  showing 
in  them. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  stay  here." 

"  You  must."  He  sprang  into  his  saddle, 
slipped  the  heavy  gun  to  his  left  arm. 

55 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  'Zekiel,  take  Lady  to  the  stable,"  he  com- 
manded sternly. 

I  bent  over  the  pommel.  Robert  had 
not  noticed  the  mule  tied  to  the  fence,  nor 
the  pitchfork  on  'Zekiel's  shoulder.  "  No, 
sah,"  began  'Zekiel. 

Robert  wheeled  his  horse.  "  What  in  the 
name  of  thunder  are  you  up  to  ?  " 

"  What  is  he  up  to  ?  don't  you  see,  sir  ?  " 
father  spluttered.  "  He  is  going  with  us. 
Let  him  alone.  We  need  every  man.  We 
have  got  to  repel  the  enemy,  sir.  What  those 
blockheads  in  Richmond  would  not  do,  we 
have  got  to  attend  to."  Father  loosened 
the  reins  and  his  horse  sprang  forward. 
Robert  was  on  one  side  of  father,  I  on  the 
other ;  so  we  rode  down  the  lane,  the  three 
of  us  abreast,  'Zekiel  behind,  and  Mammy 
screaming  to  us  from  the  door.  Out  the 
gate  and  up  the  road  we  fled.  We  shouted 
the  news  to  the  first  house  we  passed,  and 
the  men  from  it  overtook  us  before  we  had 
gone  a  mile.  Sped  by  paths  shorter  than 
the  road  the  tidings  flew,  and  from  fork  and 
lane  and  gate  raced  those  whom  regiment 

56 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

and  militia  had  not  swept  from  us.  Guns, 
good  and  old,  bright  and  rusty,  pitchforks, 
scythes,  whatever  weapons  the  soldiers  had 
left  behind,  they  carried. 

"  Such,"  father  cried  as  he  looked  be- 
hind without  slackening  a  whit  of  his 
speed,  "  such  are  the  noblest  soldiers  of 
a  country.  When  men  rise  in  defence  of 
home,  woe  to  the  invaders !  whatever  their 
weapons  may  be,  guns,  pitchforks,  or  — 
or  crutches  —  "  he  looked  down  at  his  own 
with  a  whimsical  bitterness  —  "  they  fight 
with  those  as  none  ever  fought  for  other 
causes." 

The  day  grew  hot ;  the  horses  were  lathered 
with  foam  and  panting  with  thirst  when  we 
came  to  the  cross-roads,  the  store,  and  the 
few  houses  of  Plainview.  The  men  threw 
themselves  from  their  horses  before  the  store, 
but  I  rode  on  to  the  pump  and  the  brimming 
trough,  and  waited  while  Lady  thrust  her 
nozzle  into  the  cool  water. 

Robert  came  up  to  me  there  and  caught 
the  loosened  rein.  He  answered  not  a  word 
to  any  indignant  protests,  but  led  Lady  in  at 

57 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

the  open  gate  of  one  of  the  village  houses, 
and  up  to  the  porch. 

A  woman,  white  and  aghast  at  the  dread- 
ful news  we  brought,  stood  in  the  doorway. 
"  Mrs.  Lawson,"  called  Robert,  "  I  have 
brought  Lucy  to  stay  with  you.  She  was 
afraid  to  be  left  at  home." 

"  I  was  not ! "  I  cried  hotly. 

The  woman  paid  no  heed  to  me.  "  Mr. 
Aylett,"  she  begged,  as  she  wrung  her  hands, 
"  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

Robert  explained  quickly.  The  men  were 
remounting,  forming  in  some  sort  of  order  in 
the  wide  road  before  the  store. 

"  But  we  have  heard  nothing  here,  and  we 
are  so  much  nearer,"  she  insisted. 

I  had  heard  the  same  thing  said  to 
father. 

"  The  air,  sir,  —  the  way  the  wind  blew," 
he  had  been  quick  to  explain.  "  It  reached 
us  more  plainly  by  chance ;  chance,  sir." 

Robert  said  something  of  the  same  sort, 
lifted  me  from  the  saddle,  turned  Lady  loose, 
and  was  off. 

Pounding  hoof-beats,  excited  shoutings, 
58 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

sunlight  flashing  from  gun-barrels  and  scythe- 
blades,  a  cloud  of  dust  —  and  silence. 

A  boy  cried  before  the  locked  door  of  the 
store  because  his  candy  lay  on  the  counter 
forgotten  till  it  was  too  late ;  at  gate  and 
door  women  and  children  huddled  in  fright- 
ened groups ;  before  the  porch  where  I  stood, 
shrilled  a  rooster. 

The  woman  fairly  cried,  "Get  along! 
Shut  up  !  "  she  shooed.  "  There  's  no  tell- 
ing what  will  happen  without  you  calling 
*  strangers.' " 

Noon  passed  —  there  was  no  thought  of 
dinner;  the  evening  slipped  away;  then  in 
a  cloud  of  dust,  back  came  the  cavalcade. 
Gun  and  pitchfork  were  at  rest  upon  their 
shoulders,  voices  were  no  longer  loud  and 
excited ;  but  there  was  no  mistaking  the 
earnest  look  of  their  faces. 

"  False  alarm  !  "  called  one  as  they  passed. 

Such  it  had  been.  But  it  had  done  this : 
it  had  aroused  the  instinct  of  home  defence 
in  every  man  who  had  answered  it;  new 
regiments  would  be  filled  the  faster  on 
account  of  that  day's  fear. 

59 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

The  next  morning  found  us  under  that 
oak  in  the  far  field,  watching  the  tobacco- 
planting,  discussing  it,  as  if  those  twenty- 
four  hours  had  never  been. 

We  obeyed  some  instinct,  possibly,  of  tak- 
ing up  affairs  where  they  had  been  broken  off. 

But  the  morning  was  not  still,  the  wind 
had  been  fresh  all  night  and  blew  strongly 
across  the  lower  levels.  We  had  been  but 
a  minute  on  the  spot  when  on  its  blowing 
came  low,  deep,  insistent  roll  and  reverbera- 
tion which  thrilled  us  to  the  heart. 

"  'Fore  God  !  "  swore  father. 

And  again  Robert's  face  went  white  with 
that  streak  of  red  across  his  jaw.  'Zekiel 
stood  like  a  pointer  scenting  game,  but  I 
pushed  my  bonnet  back  from  my  ears  and 
looked  around  me.  Blackberry  bushes  trailed 
thick  about  us  and  beyond  them  the  sumach 
waved  its  fronds ;  peering  here  and  there  I 
caught  a  glint  of  gray.  I  looked  carefully 
and  listened;  that  dreadful  sound  filled  the 
air. 

"  They  are  there  now,  there  is  no  mistak- 
ing that !  "  Father  was  scrambling  to  his 

60 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

feet.  "  They  must  have  been  farther  down 
the  river  yesterday,  but  now  —  "  His  crutch 
slipped  from  his  hand  in  his  haste,  and  I 
stooped  to  pick  it  up. 

"  Father,"  said  I  in  a  tone  I  strove  to 
steady  ;  "  father,  I  have  found  your  cannon." 

"  What  in  the  devil  —  " 

I  waved  his  crutch  dramatically.    "  Look  ! " 

Robert  strode  close  to  us.  Some  instinct 
warned  'Zekiel ;  he  seemed  to  shrink  together, 
and  a  sheepish  grin  spread  from  ear  to  ear. 

"  Listen !  " 

With  one  swift  stride  through  vine  and 
bush  Robert  reached  it.  Hidden  in  the 
tangle  of  leaves,  its  mouth  turned  outward, 
lay  a  jug ;  the  winds  across  the  low  levels 
blew  straight  into  its  mouth,  and  the  mourn- 
ful booming  it  made  filled  all  the  air. 

With  a  scornful  gesture  Robert  picked  it 
up,  smelled  at  it.  "  'Zekiel !  "  he  shouted. 

Daddy  stood  the  picture  of  distressed 
foolishness. 

"  What  in  thunder  —  "  Robert's  face  was 
fiery  red  and  the  veins  on  his  temples 
swollen. 

61 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"'Fore  Gawd,  Marse  Robert!"  'Zekiel 
stepped  backward,  his  eyes  fixed  in  terrified 
fascination  on  Robert's  face.  "  'Fore  Gawd, 
't  want  nuthin'  but  cidah." 

"  Cider  ! " 

"  Cidah."  'Zekiel  trampled  the  tender 
tobacco-plants  underfoot,  his  face  as  ashy 
gray  as  their  leaves.  "  Cidah,  sah.  I  swear 
it  was.  'Ria  she  knows  how  to  keep  it  sweet, 
an'  she  sho  do  keep  it  good." 

"  Robert !  "  I  called  in  an  agony  of  fear, 
"  Robert ! "  as  he  raised  the  jug  in  the  air, 
but  'Zekiel  sprang  aside.  Robert  flung  the 
jug  into  the  field;  he  was  too  angry  for  a 
word. 

"  Cidah,  sah,"  chattered  'Zekiel.  "  T  wan't 
nuthin'  in  de  worl'  but  cidah  ;  'Ria  knows 
how  to  fix  it  so  it  won't  spile." 

"  We  have  made  ourselves  the  laughing- 
stock of  the  country,"  Robert  flamed. 

"  I  think  we  have,"  father  soberly  assented. 

"A  jug,  a  jug  of  —  " 

"  Cidah,  sah ;  nice,  sweet  cidah.  Ise  been 
so  po'ly  lately ;  de  rheumatiz  wuks  out  in  de 
spring,  an'  wid  all  dis  'baccer-plantin' !  'Ria 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

she  want  me  to  tek  some  o'  dem  teas  she 
fixes  up,  but  dey  tas'e  like  pizin ;  dey  tuhns 
my  insides  wrong  side  out,  deed  dey  does. 
So  I  ups  and  says,  '  I  '11  take  a  little  o'  dat 
cidah  out  to  de  fiel',  'n  — '" 

"  Get  along  to  your  work." 

Father  and  Robert  looked  at  each  other, 
and  with  downcast  heads  and  slow  footsteps 
turned  with  one  accord  to  the  path.  But  I, 
behind  the  friendly  screen  of  leaf  and  bush, 
lay  with  face  pressed  close  to  the  grass, 
hands  clasped  beneath  my  mouth,  stifling 
hysterical  laughter.  Here  'Zekiel  came,  and 
with  friendly  face  and  sympathetic  grin 
looked  down  at  me. 

"  Get  up,  Miss  Lucy,  you  're  spi'lin  yo' 
frock,"  he  cautioned. 

"  Oh,  Daddy  !  "  I  gasped  as  my  laugh  rang 
out. 

But  'Zekiel's  grin  was  still  queer,  though 
broad.  He  dug  his  foot  into  the  hard  earth 
and  looked  down  at  the  marks  he  made. 

"  It  was  a  funny  thing,"  he  mumbled,  "  it 
sho  was.  Jes  a  little  cidah !  " 


IT  was  noon  that  day  when  father  called 
me  into  the  chamber.  He  and  Robert 
had  kept  themselves  entirely  apart;  they 
had  lingered  in  the  stable-yard,  and  loitered 
up  the  road  to  the  house,  and  leaned  against 
the  palings  by  the  gate,  earnestly  talking 
always.  Whatever  it  was,  they  threshed  it 
out  between  them,  and  called  me  at  last  to 
hear  their  decision.  As  usual  father  began 
at  the  very  heart  of  the  matter,  speaking  the 
gist  of  it  first,  and  leaving  the  preliminaries 
to  take  care  of  themselves. 

"  Lucy,"  he  called,  before  I  had  crossed 
the  threshold  of  the  room,  "  you  know  what 
I  have  always  thought  about  holding  slaves  ? 
You  agree  with  me  ?  " 

"  I  always  have,"  I  answered  proudly ;  and 
how  could  I  have  thought  otherwise,  seeing 
his  strong  will  had  trained  me  ? 

"  So  does  Robert,"  shortly.  "  I  have  never 
changed  —  never.  I  was  a  member  of  the 

64 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

legislature  of  eighteen-thirty,  the  youngest 
man  there.  I  had  always  believed  what  I 
then  declared,  —  the  holding  of  men  and 
women  in  bondage  is  a  curse.  Yet  look  at 
the  history  of  it ;  it  has  been  done  from  time 
immemorial  to  this.  Nation  after  nation  has 
abolished  it;  we  are  the  last.  Like  many 
another  great  evil  the  people  have  awakened 
to  its  wickedness  slowly  and  have  purged 
themselves  of  it.  The  time  had  already 
come  thirty  years  ago  for  freeing  alike  the 
negroes  and  ourselves.  We  would  have 
done  it,  too,  could  we  have  agreed  as  to 
what  would  be  the  best  way  to  do  it ;  but  to 
flood  the  country  with  such  a  people  as  they, 
turn  them  loose  upon  the  community, —  I 
tell  you,  sir,  it  is  a  problem  a  man  quails 
before.  Wise  care  and  good  government 
are  the  negro's  only  salvation.  I  see  no 
chance  of  their  working  out  these  questions 
for  themselves ;  no  growth  from  within,  but 
a  necessary  pruning  from  without.  Well, 
we  could  n't  accomplish  it  that  year,  though 
we  lacked  but  three  votes;  and  then  —  you 
know  the  hubbub  since.  Rascally  politicians 
5  6 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

have  been  using  a  question  which  should  be 
decided  with  calm  and  earnest  judgment  as  a 
veil  to  hide  their  own  damned  ends !  —  I  beg 
your  pardon,  Lucy.  If  it  had  not  been  for 
them,  in  another  year  we  would  have  suc- 
ceeded. Randolph  led  that  fight,  and  he 
would  have  carried  it  through.  Lord,  there 
is  such  a  clang  of  tongues  and  smoke  of 
breath  when  a  thing  has  to  be  done,  that,  ten 
chances  to  one,  a  man  forgets  what  he  is  after 
before  he  gets  it.  Well,  you  see  what  it  has 
come  to !  "  Father  leaned  against  the  mantel- 
piece as  he  talked,  his  thick,  silver-gray  hair 
rumpled  until  it  stood  straight  upon  his 
head,  his  blue  eyes  glowing ;  and  he  waved 
his  crutch,  as  he  always  did  when  he  could, 
for  emphasis. 

"  But  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you  was  what 
I  have  done  myself,  gradually.  A  man  has 
no  right,  sir,  not  to  live  up  to  his  convictions, 
whether  they  are  shared  by  those  about  him 
or  not.  When  God  has  given  him  sense 
enough  to  do  a  thing,  he  is  responsible  for 
doing  it.  Well  —  I  have  made  no  fuss  about 
it,  but  —  Tom,  you  know,  is  free.  I  gave 
66 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

him  five  acres  down  on  the  creek  ten  years 
ago.  He  is  a  born  fisherman  and  makes  a 
good  living  out  of  the  river ;  and  all  the  land 
he  wants  is  what  will  give  him  a  garden 
patch.  Then  Frank  I  sold.  That  went 
against  me:  but  John  Rowan  owns  his  wife' 
and  John  is  a  good  master.  Frank  wanted 
it  to  be  done;  I  asked  him.  I  gave  Jim  his 
freedom  papers.  He  is  a  likely  boy,  and 
will  get  along  anywhere  as  a  house  servant. 
No  good  any  other  way.  He  has  gone  up 
North."  Father  mentioned  three  or  four 
others,  and  what  had  been  done  for  them. 
"  So  there  we  are,"  he  ended  abruptly,  look- 
ing down  at  the  hearth  and  outlining  with 
his  crutch  a  brick  upon  it. 

"  Robert,"  he  began  as  abruptly  as  he  had 
ended,  "  I  have  often  wondered  if  you  did 
not  think  that  I  should  have  done  something 
more  —  settled  something  on  Lucy.  You 
have  not  paid  for  your  place  yet  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Hm !  I  could  easily  have  given  it  to 
Lucy  as  a  wedding  gift." 

"  You  could  not." 

67 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

Father  looked  astounded. 

"  It  was  mine." 

Father's  clean-shaven  lips  pursed  as  if  for 
a  whistle. 

"Well,  well!"  Then  to  me:  "Robert  is 
going  to  enlist  to-day." 

I  leaned  back  against  my  chair  speechless. 

"  He  must ;  you  know  it.  The  money 
I  have  in  the  banks  at  Richmond  —  I  in- 
tended it  for  you  —  I  intended  to  leave  you 
no  burden  of  slaves ;  and  so  —  are  you  will- 
ing that  I  should  lend  it  to  the  Confederate 
government  ?  " 

Willing?  God  knows  I  was.  Money? 
I  did  not  even  think  of  it.  But  my  hus- 
band !  I  was  no  patriot,  only  a  girl  too  shy 
to  be  at  home  even  among  the  country  folk, 
too  home-loving  to  have  spent  a  week  else- 
where, too  fond  of  field  and  wood  to  need 
companionship,  too  content  ever  to  have 
wasted  my  heart  on  callow  loves;  a  girl 
who,  waking  suddenly  to  a  happy,  absorbing 
passion,  had  no  thought  for  anything  beyond 
the  orbit  of  her  daily  life. 

"  There  is  one  thing  I  must  do  first.  I 
68 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

must  pay  off  the  debt  on  this  farm.  We  will 
attend  to  it  this  day.  Robert  must  leave 
that  free." 

They  had  settled  it,  of  course,  in  those 
earnest  conversations,  and  I  had  but  to  listen 
and  heed.  Robert's  eyes  were  turned  away ; 
father  stood  oracular  and  happy,  now  that 
he  was  managing  our  affairs  as  well  as  his 
own. 

"  Well,  it  has  come  at  last.  I  had  hoped 
it  would  be  sooner  or  not  at  all.  There  has 
been  a  war  for  every  generation  of  our  state, 
beginning  with  those  who  fought  for  our 
independence  —  eighteen-twelve,  eighteen- 
forty — I  was  just  married  then:"  his  voice 
softened  until  his  words  were  scarcely  au- 
dible. "  Even  the  Jews  allowed  a  twelve- 
month's freedom  from  the  wars  of  their 
race,  in  which  a  man  could  stay  at  home 
and  '  comfort '  the  woman  he  had  wedded. 
What  will  you  do  about  Lucy?"  he  asked 
suddenly. 

"  She  will  stay  here." 

"  She  must  come  home." 

"  No !  "  I  made  vigorous  protest. 
69 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  It  will  be  safest "  Robert  declared  after 
one  long  breath. 

"  Have  you  ever  thought,"  said  father 
gently,  "  that  I  have  missed  my  only  child  ?  " 

I  was  shamed  through  and  through.  I 
turned  my  hot  cheek  against  the  chair. 

"  Leave  '  Zekiel  and  Maria  to  take  charge 
of  the  farming  with  the  hands  you  have 
hired.  They  will  do  as  well  —  "  he  caught 
himself  abruptly. 

"  I  make  but  a  poor  farmer,"  declared 
Robert,  bitterly. 

"  There  is  the  making  of  a  good  one  in 
you,  sir,  —  one  of  the  best." 

Their  eyes  met  in  a  look  it  did  me  good 
to  see.  They  had  always  been  friends,  but 
there  was  a  holding  back,  half  of  wondering 
jealousy  on  father's  side,  a  little  of  haughti- 
ness on  Robert's  part,  and  it  had  stood  be- 
tween them.  The  stress  of  feeling  burned 
it  away;  it  disappeared  under  the  necessity 
for  plain  speech. 

"  You  have  been  a  good  friend  to  me,  Mr. 
Yancey,"  said  Robert,  impulsively. 

"  I  proved  that  when  I  gave  you  Lucy ; 
70 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

but  perhaps  I  might  have  given  something 
else  at  the  same  time,"  he  added  with  a 
gleam  of  laughter  in  his  blue  eyes. 

"  You  know  —  "  began  Robert,  haughtily, 
but  father  interrupted  him. 

"  Yes,  I  know  more  than  you  think ; " 
father  made  a  hesitant  pause,  as  if  he 
were  wondering  if  he  dared  say  what  he 
wished. 

"  I  do  know,"  he  repeated  slowly.  "  I 
have  envied  you.  I  have  left  for  you  the  joy 
of  the  struggle  your  courage  and  manhood 
demanded.  It  is  God's  blessing,  successful 
work ;  you  were  free  and  unhampered ;  you 
could  fight  your  own  fight,  make  your 
own  way.  I  was  born  a  slave  to  duties  — 
acres  and  negroes."  He  spoke  in  a  half- 
serious,  half-whimsical  manner.  "  You  had 
the  untried  path,  and  so  — "  He  left  his 
sentence  to  the  wide  possibilities  speech 
could  not  frame.  "  Well,  there 's  the  buggy, 
and  we  had  better  be  off." 

They  left  me  for  their  errand  and  I  made 
ready  for  mine.  The  thread  was  all  spun 
long  ago,  and  if  I  were  going  home  Miss 


CALLED   TO    THE    FIELD 

Nancy  must  have  it  soon.  I  packed  a 
basket  and,  with  Dick  for  company,  started 
across  the  wheat  field  behind  the  house. 
The  grain  grew  knee-high  now  and  the  rip- 
ple of  it  under  the  wind  was  like  the  waves 
of  the  wide  river  which  ran  before  father's 
house.  I  fell  to  dreaming  of  it,  and  wonder- 
ing how  I  should  feel  to  be  once  more  there ; 
I  recalled  the  old  brick  house,  the  paved 
paths,  the  thick  mulberries,  the  shining 
beach,  and  the  river  with  its  sails  flitting  for- 
ever up  and  down.  I  knew  that  I  loved  it, 
from  the  tug  at  my  heart;  but  I  loved  this, 
too. 

The  path  narrowed  to  a  foot-track  covered 
with  pine  needles,  and  the  pines  roofed  us 
in;  they  grew  far  apart  at  first  and  the  wild 
honeysuckles  flamed  between  their  trunks, 
but,  as  our  way  wound  deeper  into  the 
wood's  fastnesses,  the  crowded  trees  shot  up 
slender  and  rough  and  ragged ;  the  ends  of 
branches  deadened  by  lack  of  sun  and  space 
interlocked  impenetrably,  too  thick  almost 
for  the  wild  hogs,  bred  from  runaways,  and 
the  deer  to  wander  through.  We  saw  no 

72 


CALLED   TO    THE    FIELD 

flowers,  heard  no  bird-songs,  nothing  but  the 
crow's  rough  call  far  above  us. 

I  felt  suffocated.  Only  once  before  had  I 
come  this  way,  and  in  my  blithe  mood  then 
the  feeling  born  of  the  sombreness  was  sad- 
ness; now  it  was  horror.  I  walked  faster 
and  faster.  Dick  trotting  behind  was 
brought  to  remonstrance. 

" '  Clar ' !  Miss  Lucy,  what  is  de  use  o' 
hurryin'so?  you  is  fair  runnin';  'deed  you 
bettah  go  slow,  dyar  's  lots  o'  snakes  down  in 
dese  woods  dis  time  o'  year,  moc'sins  an' 
black-snakes;  an'  black-snakes  will  fight  in 
de  spring  time  sho.  Fus'  thing  you  knows 
you  '11  run  right  up  on  one.  You  bettah  let 
me  go  fus',  we'se  nigh  de  swamp  —  Ian'! 
dyar 's  one  now ! " 

"  Let  it  alone  !  "  I  screamed. 

"  Ise  got  to  kill  him." 

I  fled  back  along  the  path.  I  heard  the 
sound  of  a  blow,  another,  and  then  a  joyful 
shout;  "Come  'long,  Miss  Lucy,  he  done  kilt." 

I  came  up  slowly,  shuddering,  and  angry 
from  my  fright.  "  What  did  you  kill  it 
for  ?  "  I  demanded  wrathf ully. 

73 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  Hi !  dat  fellow  was  curled  up  all  ready 
fer  to  spring  —  an'  you  was  de  fus'." 

"  Go  on  ahead  if  you  want  to." 

Dick  chuckled.  The  path  dipped  into 
the  swampy  land  where  the  water  oozed 
from  the  earth  and  stood  in  stagnant  pools 
about  the  roots  of  the  trees;  we  picked  our 
way  carefully ;  here  a  rail  had  been  flung, 
and  there  a  fallen  branch  had  been  pulled 
into  place  for  bridging. 

"  We  'se  nearly  dyar,"  Dick  comforted. 
"  I  hear  de  roostahs  crowtn'.  I  suttenly 
is  glad." 

"  So  am  I,"  I  acknowledged. 

"  Dey  's  crowin'  fer  comp'ny,"  announced 
Dick,  cheerfully,  "an'  hyar  we  is.  Ef  dem 
ole  houn'  dogs  don't  scent  us  now." 

But  the  hounds  were  off  on  a  hunt  of 
their  own,  and  we  came  out  into  the  sight 
of  the  clearing  unbayed ;  cabin  and  garden, 
orchard  and  narrow  fields  lay  in  the  sunlight, 
grateful  to  the  eye  after  the  long  gloom  of 
the  dense  woods.  Miss  Nancy  stood  watch- 
ing from  her  doorway  of  the  double  cabin, 
and  Miss  Molly  —  her  sister  —  from  the 

74 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

other;  both  hastened  out  at  sight  of  us, 
Miss  Nancy  hurrying  primly,  and  yet  with 
a  certain  precise  grace,  Miss  Molly  wad- 
dling behind  her.  They  met  us  at  the 
fence. 

Miss  Nancy  welcomed  us  as  graciously  as 
any  county  dame.  "  La  !  now,"  called  Miss 
Molly,  "  I  said  somebody  was  comin'." 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,"  repeated  Miss 
Nancy.  "  It  is  such  a  beautiful  day,  and  I 
have  been  hoping  you  would  come  soon, 
now  that  the  warm  weather  has  opened  up. 
Walk  right  in ! "  She  led  the  way  up  the 
box-bordered  half  of  the  yard  to  her  own 
doorway ;  Miss  Molly  followed. 

"  Nancy  always  takes  folks  into  her  part 
of  the  house,"  her  sister  complained,  but  one 
glance  toward  her  own  littered  domain  must 
have  silenced  her ;  she  followed  meekly. 

"  Take  your  bonnet  off.  Sit  down  here." 
Miss  Nancy  drew  a  flag  rocker  before  the 
worn  but  freshly  reddened  hearth,  where  the 
covered  embers  smouldered  for  further  duty. 

"  Sister !  "  She  ceremoniously  handed  her 
a  chair,  then  sat  down  herself  across  the 

75 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

hearth  from  me.  Dick,  with  his  basket 
courteously  unnoticed,  was  left  to  sun  him- 
self on  the  broad  doorstep. 

"  I  said  somebody  was  comin',"  Miss  Molly 
repeated.  "  The  scissors  fell  out  of  my  lap 
and  struck  straight  up  in  the  floor  this  morn- 
ing, and  next  thing  the  red  rooster  walked 
right  up  on  Sis  Nancy's  step  and  flopped 
his  wings  three  times  and  crowed  right  out. 
I  Ve  been  watchin'  ever  since,  just  settin' 
in  the  sunshine  and  keepin'  a  lookout." 

"  Molly  is  always  glad  of  an  excuse  to  do 
nothing,"  said  Miss  Nancy. 

"Well,  it  certainly  did  feel  mighty  good 
settin'  there  in  the  sunshine;  and  when  I 
spied  you  comin'  out  of  the  woods  I  said, 
1  La,  if  there  ain't  Miss  Lucy,  bless  my  soulJ 
and  don't  she  look  sweet  ? ' ' 

I  laughed.  "You  couldn't  see  me  for 
my  sun-bonnet." 

"  But  I  could  see  your  frock,"  Miss  Molly 
assured  me  eagerly,  delighted  because  she 
thought  I  was  pleased  with  her  flattery. 
"  It  certainly  is  pretty.  Lands !  did  you 
have  it  when  you  was  married  ?  " 

76 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

I  scarcely  listened  to  her,  I  was  watching 
her  sister.  Twice  only  had  I  seen  Miss 
Nancy  before,  though  I  had  heard  of  her 
all  my  life.  There  were  a  hundred  tales 
afloat  of  her  oddity,  but  her  dress  was 
stranger  than  any  of  her  deeds.  A  round 
scant  skirt  hung  from  a  short  puffed  waist 
which  ended  below  her  bust ;  low-cut,  short 
of  sleeve,  the  bodice  was,  and  that  and  skirt 
alike  were  white.  Winter  and  summer, 
spring  and  fall,  this  style  of  costume  never 
varied.  Long  knitted  mittens  and  a  yel- 
lowed shawl  gave  warmth  in  winter,  but 
now  she  threw  the  shawl  back  on  her  chair 
when  she  sat  down.  Neck  and  arms  were 
shrivelled  like  her  face  ;  her  straight  features, 
big  dark  eyes,  and  white  hair,  soft,  abundant 
and  worn  high  upon  her  head,  were  outlined 
against  the  loom  which  filled  the  corner  of 
the  room  behind  her;  I  caught  my  breath 
at  the  picture. 

Miss  Molly  babbled  on.  "  I  just  set  the 
coffee-pot  away  with  the  grounds  in  it  this 
morning.  I  said  to  myself,  '  Whoever  is 
comin'  will  want  their  fortune  told,'  and 

77 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

there  it  is  to  hand.  Mr.  Rowan  came  him- 
self last  week  to  see  if  Sis  Nancy  could  tell 
him  who  stole  his  shoats,  and  did  n't  she 
know  as  soon  as  she  laid  eyes  on  the  cup?  " 

"  I  know  the  thief  on  his  place,"  said  Miss 
Nancy,  curtly. 

"  And  when  Miss  Mary  with  her  sisters 
came  up  here  from  Oakleigh  did  n't  she 
tell  her  right  away  she  was  goin'  to  be 
married  before  the  year  was  out,  and  her 
husband  would  have  blue  eyes  and  brown 
hair,  and  they  would  live  in  a  house  with 
three  chimneys  ?  " 

"  Any  goose  could  guess  that  she  and 
John  Dudley  were  dead  in  love  with  each 
other.  How  is  Robert  ?  "  The  question 
was  abrupt,  but  as  she  asked  it  voice  and 
expression  softened  wonderfully. 

"  He  is  well.     He  —  he  is  going  away." 

Her  eyes  asked  what  I  could  not  speak. 
I  nodded.  Suddenly  I  burst  into  a  passion 
of  tears. 

"  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  it,"  I  sobbed. 

"  Yes,  you  can ;  yes,  you  can."  Her  hand 
smoothing  my  head  was  infinitely  loving. 

78 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  I  cried  childishly. 

"  Ah  !  "     Her  tone  was  full  of  pity. 

"  It  will  kill  me." 

"  No,  it  will  not."  Even  then  I  noticed 
the  bitterness  of  her  voice. 

"  Suppose  he  should  get  shot !  "  I  poured 
out  all  my  horrors  under  the  influence  of 
that  gentle  touch.  I  had  thought  myself 
so  brave.  I  had  come  with  my  presents  and 
my  work  to  be  done,  to  say  good-by  quite 
grandly.  Instead  I  sobbed  out  woes  I  had 
not  before  named  even  to  myself. 

"  You  must  be  brave ;  think  of  all  the  other 
women  who  have  given  up  sons  and  husbands 
and  —  and  lovers."  But  that  touched  me  not 
a  whit ;  other  women  were  others,  I  was  I. 

"  He  wants  to  go  ?  " 

"Y-e-s!" 

"  Then  you  must  let  him  see  no  fret  nor 
worry,  nor  cowardice."  Miss  Nancy  spoke 
the  last  word  firmly. 

"  I  am  no  coward,"  I  cried. 

"  I  know  it."  She  left  me  and  moved 
about  softly,  quickly.  "  Drink  this,"  she 
commanded,  as  she  pressed  a  glass  into  my 

79 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

hand  ;  "  it  is  some  of  my  elderberry  wine. 
It  is  better  than  blackberry,  I  think,  or  even 
grape.  Drink  it  all,  child  ;  it  won't  hurt  you. 
Don't  cry  any  more,"  as  I  handed  back  the 
empty  glass.  "  You  cry  hard,  child,  and  Rob- 
ert must  not  see  red  eyes  and  swollen  lids." 

"  He  has  gone  away ;  he  will  not  be  back 
till  night." 

"  By  that  time  you  will  be  all  right.  You 
must  not  let  him  see  a  shadow  on  your  face. 
Send  him  away  with  a  smile.  There  is  so 
much  sadness.  Let  his  memory  of  you  be 
bright.  You  brought  me  the  thread  ?  " 

"  Dick  has  it  in  the  basket." 

"  I  will  look  for  him." 

She  left  me  for  a  moment.  I  knew  it  was 
done  to  give  me  time  to  stop  that  hysteri- 
cal catching  in  my  breath.  I  leaned  for- 
ward, watching  the  ring  of  smoke  curling 
slowly  above  the  smouldering  fire.  I  could 
hear  the  fowls  clucking  outside,  and  could 
hear,  also,  the  swish  and  swirl  of  the  Dragon's 
rapid  flow;  and  when  she  came  back,  though 
I  felt  wretched,  storm-swept,  I  was  quiet. 

Dick  followed  her  and  put  down  his  basket 
80 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

on  the  table  under  the  narrow  window.  I 
folded  back  the  towel  from  the  top  and 
showed  its  contents.  "  I  have  brought  you 
some  preserves  and  honey  and  pickles ;  we 
shall  not  need  them." 

"  Bless  your  soul !  but  I  shall.  I  told 
Sister  Molly  yesterday  mine  were  nearly 
out.  And  it 's  a  long  time  yet  before  fruit 
will  be  ripe." 

"  I  want  you  to  enjoy  them.  You  have 
been  so  good  to  me." 

"  You  have  brought  me  the  thread  ? " 
quickly ;  my  voice  was  quavering  again. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  it  is  in  the  basket." 

"  How  smooth  it  is,  and  even,  and  fine  ! " 
She  examined  it  critically.  "  I  will  begin  to 
weave  it  at  once." 

"  There  is  no  hurry,"  I  said  faintly. 

"  We  '11  have  it  ready,  anyhow." 

"  It  is  so  hard,"  I  began  again. 

Miss  Nancy  brought  me  up  shortly.  She 
was  lifting  the  jars  to  the  few  shelves  of 
her  cupboard;  Dick  stood  by  the  hearth. 
"  Hard !  "  she  cried,  as  she  sat  down  the  last 
one  and  whirled  to  face  me.  "  Hard  !  Sup- 
6  81 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

pose  you  had  never  had  him  ?  Suppose  he 
had  loved  somebody  else  ?  Suppose  he  had 
loved  you  and  you  had  known  it,  and  yet  he 
had  to  marry  some  one  else  ?  " 

"  It  is  impossible." 

"  Ah,  well !  it  is  —  for  you."  She  closed 
the  door  slowly  and  went,  her  back  turned 
to  me,  toward  the  loom. 

"  Have  you  seen  the  counterpane  I  am 
weaving  ?  it  is  nearly  done.  I  will  take  it 
out  and  put  in  your  linen." 

The  high  narrow  bench  on  which  her 
slender,  alert  figure  perched  through  many 
an  hour  was  pushed  far  back  to  the  end, 
and  on  it,  the  shuttle  in  her  fingers,  her 
body  swaying,  —  as  I  had  once  seen  her,  — 
she  seemed  some  weird  spirit,  something 
superhuman,  who  held  alike  in  her  withered 
but  active  hands  both  music  and  fate.  I 
leaned  against  the  heavy  post  watching  her, 
as  her  loving  touch  on  the  threads  bespoke 
the  absorbing  interest  it  held.  She  spoke  of 
dye  and  coloring,  of  plaid  and  stripe. 

"Sister!"  Miss  Molly  called.  "La,  you 
are  always  at  that  loom !  If  you  are  not 

82 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

working  in  it,  you  are  looking  at  it.  Here 's 
the  coffee-pot.  Come  along,  tell  Miss  Lucy's 
fortune." 

"  It  is  already  told."  Miss  Nancy  was  a 
trifle  curt. 

"  Em  —  em  !  as  if  people  never  had  any- 
thing happen  to  'em  after  they  were  once 
good  and  married.  Come  on.  Here,  child  !  " 
Miss  Molly  beckoned  me  mysteriously.  "You 
just  get  down  that  china  cup  off  the  shelf 
your  own  self,  pour  this  in,  there  !  So !  and 
give  it  a  good  whirl  around  three  times  — 
that 's  it !  Throw  the  coffee  on  the  fire,  it 
won't  hurt  anything,  and  turn  the  cup  upside 
down  in  the  saucer.  Set  it  here  and  just  leave 
it  till  the  grounds  get  hard  and  dry." 

I  did  as  she  told  me  explicitly,  Miss  Nancy 
watching  me  from  a  corner  of  the  hearth, 
her  face  set,  her  dark  eyes  sombre.  I  put 
out  an  impatient  hand  cupward.  My  mood 
had  swung  back  from  its  blackness,  and  I 
was  thoroughly  in  humor  with  the  jest. 

"  Stop !  "  Miss  Nancy  cried  ;  "  the  drops 
would  run  back  in  the  cup ;  that  would  mean 
tears." 

83 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"It's  perfectly  wonderful,"  whispered  her 
sister.  "  There  's  no  telling  what  she  will 
promise  you." 

"  I  shall  believe  every  word  she  says." 

"  Pshaw  !  I  know  nothing  about  it."  Miss 
Nancy  spoke  impatiently. 

"  You  look  the  fortune-teller  to  perfection. 
No  one  could  doubt  you." 

Miss  Nancy  frowned.  "  Hand  the  cup 
here,"  she  said  in  a  voice  of  resignation. 
"  You  must  pick  it  up  yourself." 

She  turned  the  pretty  blue  china  reluc- 
tantly ;  but  the  instant  she  did  so  her  face 
changed :  an  intent,  peering  look  stole  into 
her  eyes,  a  flush  crept  upon  her  cheek.  "  I 
see,"  she  began  in  low  and  sing-song  tone, 
"  a  girl  and  a  man.  The  girl  —  she  is  neither 
large  nor  tall  —  " 

"  That 's  me,"  I  interrupted  gleefully. 

"  And  the  man,  he  is  large,  broad-shoul- 
dered —  " 

"Robert!" 

"  There  is  a  stream  here,  a  path,  a  house 
with  two  chimneys." 

I  smiled  ;  it  was  well  done. 
84 


CALLED   TO    THE    FIELD 

"  Another  house,  big,  four  chimneys. 
There  is  a  journey  before  you,  not  long, 
but  — "  She  moved  a  step  on  the  uneven 
hearth,  turned  the  cup  as  if  for  better  sight, 
her  fingers  fumbled ;  the  cup  fell  and  broke 
into  a  dozen  pieces  on  the  bricks. 

"  Sister !  Sister  !  Your  best  china  cup !  " 
Miss  Molly  screamed.  But  Miss  Nancy 
seemed  in  no  wise  dismayed.  "  Accidents 
will  happen,"  she  said  sententiously,  while  I 
promised  her  one  of  mine. 

"  It  will  not  be  so  pretty,"  I  declared,  "  but 
you  can  have  it  to  remember  me  by." 

"  I  do  not  need  that,"  said  Miss  Nancy  as 
she  helped  me  with  bonnet  and  gloves. 

They  followed  us  to  the  fence  where  they 
had  welcomed  us,  and  when  I  looked  back 
Miss  Nancy  gazed  straight  toward  me.  The 
shawl  had  fallen  from  her  bare  shoulders, 
one  arm  lay  on  the  chestnut  rail,  the  wind 
blew  her  scant  skirts  about  her  ankles ;  she 
held  her  head  high  and  in  her  eyes  was  a 
look  I  could  not  fathom.  It  was  that  of  the 
seer. 


VI 


MAMMY  stood  in  the  kitchen  door 
when  Dick  and  I  came  up  across 
the  yard.  Usually  she  was  full  of 
curiosity,  and  questioned  every  one,  even  me. 
Now  she  stood  leaning  against  the  door- 
way with  lips  pursed  out,  wrinkled  forehead, 
and  arms  akimbo  ;  and  she  was  silent. 

"  I  am  going  to  pack  my  trunk,"  I  called 
to  her.  "  I  want  you  to  help  me." 

"  Name  o'  Gawd !  "  she  mumbled,  "  you 
talk  lak  you  's  gwine  stay  a  year." 

"Well!"  I  attempted  a  laugh.  "I'll 
need  all  my  dresses." 

"  Miss  Lucy,  what  you  talkin'  'bout,  all  de 
clo'es  you 's  got  ?  What  is  you  gwine  do  wid 
all  dem  things  ?  does  you  'spec'  to  stay  for- 
ebbah  ?  "  as  I  went  from  bureau  drawer  to 
closet. 

I  pretended  much  amusement,  but  our 
hurried  footsteps  seemed  out  of  tune  with 
86 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

the  quiet  of  the  house,  that  was  flooded  with 
the  sunshine  of  afternoon,  with  the  long 
shadows  the  gate  made  across  the  pathway, 
and  the  cherry  tree  stretched  along  the 
grass.  The  dragging  of  my  brass-studded 
trunk  into  the  hall,  even  the  turning  of  the 
key  in  the  lock,  rasped  my  nerves ;  but  I 
bore  myself  gayly. 

"  You  must  just  play  that  I  have  gone  on 
a  visit,  and  you  must  take  care  of  everything 
and  keep  it  exactly  as  it  was  when  I  was 
here,  house  and  all.  Don't  you  go  to  shut- 
ting up  the  windows  and  locking  the  doors ; 
I  could  n't  bear  the  thought  of  it."  I  talked 
in  snatches  as  I  made  a  fresh  toilet,  from  a 
bath  in  soft  spring-water  to  a  dainty  summer 
gown.  "  You  are  to  keep  everything  just  as 
I  leave  it,"  I  repeated.  "  Who  knows  when  I 
may  come  back  ?  You  are  not  to  cry  when 
I  go  away."  And  as  I  had  intended  to  seem 
frivolous,  as  she  always  thought  me,  I  shook 
her  fat  shoulders  as  I  laid  my  hands  upon 
them,  and  put  my  head  on  one  side  to  watch 
the  fall  of  lace  from  my  rounded  arms ;  and 
I  vowed  there  was  not  a  freckle  upon  them. 
87 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  No  tears  now,"  with  another  little  shake, 
for  the  whites  of  Mammy's  eyes  were  sus- 
piciously red  and  bloodshot.  "  Everything 
will  soon  be  all  right,  and  then  '  We  're 
coming  home,  no  more  to  roam,'  I  sang, 
'  We  're  coming  home  to-morrow.' " 

I  finished  dressing,  took  a  leisurely  survey 
of  myself,  from  parted  hair  and  white  fore- 
head, from  long  lashes  and  blue  eyes  and 
round  cheeks  to  the  line  of  my  low  collar  — 
all  the  small  mirror  would  show. 

"  You  are  to  get  the  very  best  supper  you 
can  cook,"  I  commanded;  "father  is  not 
coming  back,  but  Robert  will  be  tired  and 
hungry." 

"  Po'  lamb !  "  I  heard  her  mutter  under  her 
breath ;  but  I  was  still  singing  when  I  went 
out  of  the  house. 

The  roses  by  the  door  were  nearly  abloom, 
so  nearly  that  there  was  a  fragrance  in  their 
buds;  I  pulled  down  a  low  branch  of  the 
cherry  tree,  but  the  fruit  was  white  and 
waxen,  showing  no  mellow  tint  of  red  upon 
its  cheeks;  I  opened  the  garden  gate  and 
strolled  down  the  flower-bordered  path. 
88 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

The  earth  beneath  the  lilacs  was  purple  with 
drifted  petals,  the  syringa  was  studded  with 
white,  folded  buds,  the  bridal  wreath  thrust 
out  an  arm  of  bloom ;  and,  in  the  squares 
they  bordered,  the  peas  unfolded  butterfly 
blossoms,  the  radishes  showed  sturdy  leaves, 
and  the  new-set  plants  wilted  while  they 
struck  fresh  root  in  brown  furrows.  Down 
at  the  very  end  of  the  garden  grew  the 
strawberries ;  I  had  watched  their  blossom- 
ing and  then  forgotten  them.  Would  they 
be  ripe  now?  I  pulled  aside  the  pine 
boughs  eagerly ;  the  red  globes  shone  every- 
where. 

They  were  the  crowning  touch  to  our 
feast,  and  when  I  stood  by  the  table  gloat- 
ing over  them,  I  heard  a  horseman  riding 
rapidly  down  the  lane  and  ran  out  to  meet 
Robert.  How  straight  he  sat!  how  easy 
was  Lady's  lope!  A  new  light,  brave  and 
bright  and  strong,  shone  on  his  face ;  but 
his  eyes  were  anxious  as  they  met  mine, 
then  they  brightened  wonderfully. 

He  slipped  from  his  horse.  "  Sweet- 
heart!" he  murmured  as  put  his  arm 

89 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

about  me ;  and  though  Robert  was  tenderly 
affectionate  it  was  rarely  that  such  terms 
crossed  his  lips.  I  knew  it  was  relief  as 
well  as  love  which  spoke,  that  he  had  feared 
to  find  me  bewailing,  tear-stained;  but  I 
slipped  my  hand  in  his,  and  we  went  along 
to  the  stable,  Lady  following  sedately. 

He  told  me  gayly  that  he  had  enlisted, 
that  he  was  to  join  the  force  then  fortifying 
Gloucester  Point,  and,  with  the  fort  at  York- 
town,  defending  the  river  which  afforded  a 
partial  route  to  Richmond ;  that  the  farm 
had  been  paid  for  and  the  deed  recorded ; 
and  he  spoke  of  a  horse  he  wished  to  buy. 

"  For  what  ? "  I  asked  quickly. 

"Why,  you  know  I  have  joined  the 
cavalry." 

"  You  will  ride  Lady." 

"  She  is  your  horse." 

"  And  yours.  Do  you  think  I  would  trust 
any  other  horse  to  carry  you  should  you  be 
ordered  from  the  fort,"  I  added  passionately ; 
and  somehow  we  could  not  find  another  word 
to  say. 

At  the  gate  Robert  put  his  hand  on  mine 
90 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

as  I  started  to  lift  the  latch.  "  When  could 
we  go  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"  To-morrow,"  I  answered,  lightly. 

"  To-morrow  ?  "  astounded. 

"  I  am  all  ready.  We  can  start  early  in 
the  morning.  Come,  see  !  "  I  pointed  with 
dramatic  gesture  to  trunk  and  box  piled 
within  the  hall,  and  though  Robert  had  the 
grace  not  to  say  it,  his  face  showed  that  he 
was  glad. 

We  were  as  gay  about  the  supper  table 
as  we  had  ever  been;  we  ate  heartily;  we 
loitered  in  the  wide  hall  and  watched  the 
sun  set  beyond  the  pines,  and  the  dusk  veil 
road  and  fields.  I  got  my  flutina,  sat  down 
on  the  doorstep,  and  played  reel  and  jig  and 
every  gay  tune  I  knew;  and  when  Robert 
finished  smoking  I  played  "  Lorena."  His 
rich  notes  floated  out  with  mine  as  the  plain- 
tive story  was  sung,  and  my  voice  quavered 
never  over  a  single  note,  though  Robert's 
broke  once  at  the  last:  — 

"  There  is  a  future,  oh,  thank  God. 
'T  is  dust  to  dust  beneath  the  sod, 
But  there,  up  there,  't  is  heart  to  heart." 

91 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

I  slipped  into  a  gay  hunter's  chorus  in 
a  flash,  sang  "  Kitty  Clyde  "  saucily,  and  fol- 
lowed it  with  every  air  I  knew.  When  I 
laid  the  flutina  down,  I  heard  a  sigh  behind 
me ;  I  turned  my  head.  There  on  the  back 
step  sat  'Zekiel  and  Maria  and  Dick. 

There  was  nothing  wrong  with  the  world 
next  day,  nor  with  us,  so  far  as  eye  could  see. 
We  were  clad  in  our  best,  but  then  we  were 
going  a-visiting;  we  ate  little  breakfast,  but 
we  were  hurried.  Lady,  hitched  to  the 
buggy,  was  tied  outside  of  the  yard  railing, 
and  the  ox-cart  waited  behind  her. 

I  carefully  pulled  out  the  bonnet's  bow 
beneath  my  chin,  picked  up  my  gloves  and 
my  small  fringed  parasol.  I  would  make  no 
tour  of  the  house,  say  no  last  words,  think 
no  last  thoughts,  though  every  step  upon 
the  bare  floor  beat  "  Last,  the  last,  it  is 
the  last!" 

I  called  a  gay  good-by  to  Mammy's  anxious 

figure  at  the  gate,  while  Robert  tucked  the 

linen  robe  about  my  skirts ;  I  straightened 

my  bonnet  where  Mammy  had  tilted  it  when 

92 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

she  caught  me  fast  in  a  swaying  embrace 
as  I  came  out ;  I  looked  and  laughed  as  we 
turned,  but  I  would  not  look  backwards.  I 
saw  the  fields,  green  with  the  upspringing 
shoots  of  corn,  slip  by  as  Lady  trotted  down 
the  lane;  I  saw  the  woods  come  nearer, 
nearer,  the  fields  grow  less  until  only  the 
sedge  was  left;  I  saw  the  pines  overhead. 
By  and  by  the  clang  of  the  gate  told  me 
that  we  were  outside,  and  the  county  road 
stretched  before  us.  I  did  not  see  it ;  but 
my  bonnet's  brim  was  wide,  it  hid  my 
weakness. 


93 


VII 

IT  cut  me  to  the  heart  to  see  father's 
delight  at  having  me  again  at  home. 
Happiness,  sudden  and  complete,  often 
breeds  selfishness.  I  had  been  too  absorbed 
in  self  to  think  that  any  suffered  thereby, 
and  no  straying  fancy  had  ever  pictured 
for  me  the  rooms,  with  their  look  of  disuse, 
and  the  deserted  hall  of  my  father's  house. 
Again  within  them,  I  was  vaguely  conscious 
of  their  tale  of  emptiness,  as  if  the  life  of  the 
home  had  shrunken  too  small  for  the  envel- 
oping shell,  —  a  feeling  which  did  not  wear 
away, —  for  it  was  not  my  life  those  walls 
then  held,  it  was  my  existence. 

Father,  with  his  eager  interest  prompting 
him,  took  me  from  cabin  to  cabin,  showed 
the  calves  he  had  petted  till  they  followed 
him  like  dogs,  the  colts  he  had  broken  or 
was  going  to  break,  bragging  of  the  pedigree 
of  this  one  or  the  speed  of  the  other,  his 
94 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

own  enthusiasm  vivifying  every  subject  that 
he  touched  upon,  and  so  enrapturing  him- 
self that  he  did  not  perceive  its  lack  in 
others. 

I  did  my  poor  best  to  share  his  interests, 
but  some  part  of  me  was  deadened,  gone  to 
the  quickening  of  others.  The  plantation 
with  all  its  affairs  held  for  me  not  a  fraction 
of  the  fascination  the  river  kept.  That 
way  lay  the  fort;  that  way  was  Robert. 
Along  its  shining  stretches  he  must  come. 
I  watched  it,  but  never  for  its  beauties  ;  light 
and  shade  upon  it,  mist  and  sunshine,  sun- 
rise and  sunset  —  all  were  unheeded  in  that 
searching  for  a  sail. 

Many  a  morning,  when  the  birds  sang  in 
the  mulberries  outside  the  dormer  window 
by  my  bedside,  I  pulled  my  pillow  over  to 
the  wide  sill,  propped  my  chin  upon  it,  and, 
watching  the  sunrise,  —  the  golden  pathway, 
the  beaten  silver  of  the  waves,  —  wondered 
if  fortune  would  bring  Robert  that  day  along 
its  highway. 

Many  a  noon,  when  the  river  ran  still  and 
smooth  like  molten  glass  beneath  the  shim- 

95 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

mer  of  heat  dancing  above  it,  when  the 
shadows  of  the  mulberries  were  close  about 
their  trunks,  and  the  roll  of  the  tide  was 
languid  along  the  shore,  I  watched  the  idle 
sails  in  sight,  wondering  if  fitful  winds  and 
cruel  calms  debarred  me  of  any  moment 
which  might  be  passed  with  him. 

Or  at  sunset,  when  all  the  river  was  crim- 
soned, when  the  boats  were  hurrying  home, 
I  longed  to  see  some  sail  stretched  toward 
us.  No  music  could  be  so  sweet  as  the 
rattling  of  the  ropes  about  the  mast  when 
the  sail  which  brought  him  was  slipped  to 
idleness,  no  picture  so  entrancing  as  one 
straight  figure  standing  above  it  laughing  at 
my  delight. 

Furloughs  were  easily  to  be  had  —  then. 
The  life  of  the  soldiers  at  the  fort  had 
touches  of  prolonged  picnicking.  The  ladies 
visited  them,  feasted  them ;  the  lightest  of 
cakes,  the  clearest  of  jellies,  the  tenderest 
poultry  found  their  way  to  that  bastion  by 
which  the  inner  gate  was  guarded.  But  I 
would  never  go.  Emily  was  away.  I  saw 
little  of  the  other  neighbors,  and  I  was  half 

96 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

jealous  of  the  tales  I  heard.  I  toasted  my 
hero  when  he  came,  but  I  sought  him  never. 

My  own  small  row-boat  lay  at  the  wharf, 
and  I  was  out  in  it  sometimes,  but  not  often ; 
I  was  too  restless  to  settle  to  any  one  thing 
day  by  day.  Late  one  afternoon  I  floated 
in  it  idly  over  the  shallows  before  the  house, 
watching  the  banners  of  the  seaweeds  stream- 
ing with  the  tide,  the  darting  crabs,  the 
pulsing  jelly-fish  —  and  a  sail.  It  came 
around  the  headland  like  a  wide-winged  bird 
skimming  close  above  the  river's  breast ;  the 
wind  was  fair  for  the  course  it  took,  and  the 
bellying  sail  and  gleaming  prow  sped  straight 
up  the  mighty  current  till  abreast  of  me, 
then  rounded  and  beat  down  toward  my 
little  boat.  My  idle  oars  flashed ;  it  seemed 
but  a  moment  before  I  was  alongside,  was 
grasping  Robert's  hands,  and,  springing  over 
the  canoe's  side,  was  seated  by  him  in  the 
stern  and  laughing  at  Henry's  teasing ;  for 
Henry  was  with  him  and  sat  indolently  on 
the  canoe's  careening  side,  the  sail-rope  in 
his  hand. 

"  Why  have  n't  you  been  to  see  us  ?  "  I 
7  97 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

demanded,  attacking  him  in  return  for  his 
jesting. 

He  made  a  polite  but  careless  answer. 

"  I  should  think  you  would  be  glad  enough 
to  get  away  from  the  camp  now  and  then. 
I  don't  see  how  you  exist  there  among  men 
anyhow,  where  there  are  no  pretty  girls  to 
visit." 

"  That 's  just  where  they  are,"  declared 
Robert,  lightly,  but  he  slipped  his  hand  over 
mine  to  give  it  a  warning  pressure.  "  Car- 
riage loads  of  them  drive  up  every  day ;  you 
should  come  yourself  sometimes." 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders.  "  Do  you  want 
me  to  ? " 

"  No."  He  glanced  meaningly  at  Henry 
as  he  spoke.  "  No,  I  don't  believe  I  do." 

"  Who  have  been  there  ?  "  I  demanded. 

Robert  gave  a  list  of  half  the  families  in 
the  county,  adding  a  word  of  comment  now 
and  then.  I  noticed  a  touch  of  sarcasm  in 
his  speech  ;  it  was  as  if  he  himself  had  spoken 
when  Henry  said,  "  I  am  sick  of  it." 

I  was  half  frightened  at  his  vehemence, 
and  blundered  into  saying  the  first  thing 
98 


CALLED   TO    THE    FIELD 

I  thought :  "  There  are  not  half  so  many 
ladies  around  there.  Emily — " 

Again  a  warning  from  Robert  —  this  time 
a  glance  —  cut  me  short. 

"  And  I,"  I  added  airily. 

"  You ! "  cried  Henry,  in  quick,  teasing 
tones;  "if  Robert  had  given  me  half  a 
chance  —  " 

"Pshaw!"  I  tossed  my  head.  "What 
would  that  have  mattered  ?  You  would 
have  forgotten  me  for  the  next  pretty  face 
you  saw." 

A  shout  of  laughter  derided  both  the 
vanity  and  the  prophecy  I  had  been  betrayed 
into;  but  Henry  took  my  words  to  heart. 
"  You  think  me  fickle,"  he  accused. 

I  stammered  at  first  over  my  answer,  but 
then  my  light  heart  sent  the  lighter  speech 
to  my  lips.  "  At  least  you  are  off  with  the 
old  "  —  referring  to  his  evident  quarrel  with 
Emily  —  "  before  you  are  on  with  the  new." 

"  There  will  be  no  new." 

Henry  spoke  so  seriously  that  I  could 
think  of  nothing  further  to  jest  about.  I 
turned  to  watch  the  taut  rope,  and  the  little 

99 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

boat  cutting  its  way  through  the  water  be- 
hind us,  and  when  I  looked  again  towards 
him  his  face  was  white  and  stern.  He  stood 
up  loosening  the  sail  which  hid  the  wharf 
from  my  sight ;  it  slid  to  the  boat's  bottom 
and  there  on  the  wharf's  edge,  looking  down 
at  him,  stood  Emily.  The  red  swept  her 
cheek,  her  lips  trembled,  —  for  a  second, — 
then  she  called  a  gay  greeting.  I  sprang  up 
on  the  wharf,  caught  her  by  the  waist,  and 
whirled  her  about. 

"  When  did  you  come  ?  " 

"  A  moment  ago." 

"  Oh,  I  mean  from  Middlesex." 

"  Yesterday." 

"  I  hope  you  will  stay  at  home  now." 

"  Forever ! "  with  mock  solemnity. 

I  thought  the  men  were  close  behind  us 
as  we  climbed  the  bluff,  but  when  I  turned 
at  the  top  Henry  bent  above  the  rope,  fum- 
bling at  the  knot,  as  if  to  make  the  boat  the 
more  secure,  and  Robert  waited  for  him. 

I  saw  Henry  comfortably  seated  near  Emily, 
lingered  for  a  few  polite  words  with  them,  then 
loitered  off  with  Robert  toward  the  summer- 

100 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

house,  which  was  cool  and  shaded  from  all 
eyes ;  but  when  we  sat  down  they  were  close 
behind  us.  We  strolled  about  the  yard  and 
back  again,  Henry  so  contriving  it  that  he 
walked  by  my  side,  and  again  within  the  porch 
I  stole  a  glance  at  Robert  for  sympathy. 
His  quizzical  look  brought  inspiration. 

I  knew  that  they  were  hungry,  I  declared, 
and  that  after  that  hot  sail  they  were  longing 
for  some  cool  drink ;  there  was  milk  in  the 
dairy  and  cake  in  the  sideboard,  and  it  was 
yet  an  hour  to  supper ;  they  should  have  some- 
thing to  eat  and  drink  at  once.  "  Robert, 
come  help  me!"  I  finished.  And,  once  in 
the  hall,  I  caught  his  hand,  slipped  through 
the  parlor  door,  and  shut  it  softly  behind  us. 
"  There  !  "  I  whispered,  "  I  am  going  to  have 
one  minute  to  myself  anyhow." 

There  is  one  satisfaction  in  having  a 
husband  whom  necessity  calls  from  home  — 
and  but  one :  his  love-making  gathers  force 
and  passion,  missing  the  langourous  flow  of 
daily  affection.  Robert  leaned  to  kiss  my 
hair ;  I  tilted  my  head  and  kissed  —  him. 

"  How  long  can  you  stay  ?  "  I  asked  softly. 
101 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  Until  to-morrow." 

"  O-h  !     Is  Henry  going  to  stay  also  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"And  Emily?" 

Robert  laughed  at  my  tone  of  dismay. 

"  I  want  to  see  her,  to  have  her  here ;  but 
just  now  I  want  no  one  but  you."  Had  I 
learned  to  make  love  as  well  as  Robert  ? 

"  Make  the  best  of  it  Give  them  a 
chance;  maybe  they  will  fight  it  out." 

"  Never,"  I  groaned,  as  I  turned  the  knob 
of  the  door  noiselessly.  No  sound  came 
from  the  porch.  I  glanced  out  as  I  stole 
across  the  hall,  and  saw  that  Henry  sat  there 
alone ;  in  the  dining-room,  by  the  window, 
stood  Emily,  her  hands  clasped  behind  her 
back,  her  gaze  on  the  river. 

"  Well ! "  she  cried,  as  if  in  astonishment, 
"where  have  you  been?  I  came  to  help." 
She  spoke  petulantly,  but  her  lashes  were 
wet.  "  I  am  hungry." 

"  For  pity's   sake !     You   shall   have   the 
very   first    piece.      Here,"   cutting    a   huge 
slice  from  the   rich,    round   loaf.      "  Eat   it 
while  I  fix  the  tray." 
102 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  Give  it  to  me ;  let  me  carry  it  out,"  she 
begged,  when  it  was  ready. 

"  No." 

But  she  slipped  it  from  beneath  my  hands 
and  was  gone.  Her  supple  figure  swayed 
as  she  held  the  heavy  tray  straight  before 
her;  her  demure  eyes  were  dangerous.  I 
wondered  how  it  was  possible  for  Henry  to 
look  at  her  so  carelessly  when,  with  a 
manner  that  was  a  wistful  challenge,  she 
stood  before  him;  but  he  was  coldly  and 
studiously  polite  —  no  more. 

It  was  my  blithe  happiness  alone  which 
thawed  the  iciness  between  them.  If  they 
would  be  nothing  else  they  must  at  least  be 
friends  here  in  my  old  home,  on  that  porch 
where  the  four  of  us  had  often  loitered  while 
the  tide  rippled  upon  the  beach,  the  wind 
rustled  in  the  restless  mulberries,  and  the 
river  sparkled  from  shore  to  shore. 

"  Tell  us  of  your  visit,  Emily,"  I  asked 
when  she  had  sat  down  on  the  bench  by  my 
side.  "  You  enjoyed  it  ?  " 

"  Y-e-s,"  as  if  she  was  not  altogether  sure. 

"  What  was  the  matter?  "  I  insisted. 
103 


CALLED   TO    THE    FIELD 

She  straightened  herself  with  a  little  air  of 
defiance. 

"  Oh,  there  are  no  gentlemen  left ;  they 
have  all  gone  to  the  war." 

"  Nor  were  there  any  here  —  until  now. 
Could  n't  you  enjoy  yourself  without  them  ?  " 
I  teased  thoughtlessly. 

"  What  is  one  to  do  ?  "  she  drawled. 

Robert  looked  at  her  curiously,  but  Henry's 
gaze  was  fixed  as  if  he  saw  nothing  but  the 
sparkling  river  and  the  misty  shore  beyond. 

"  Why,  walk  and  drive ;  a  hundred  things ! " 
I  cried. 

"  'T  is  salt  without  its  savor." 

"  Well,  there  are  more  men  about  here 
than  there.  Why  did  n't  you  stay  at  home  ?  " 

"  One  grows  restless." 

"  With  such  a  disposition  as  Miss  Emily's, 
restlessness  is  natural."  It  was  Henry  who 
spoke,  and  Emily's  eyes  flashed. 

"  Am  I  the  only  one  ? "  she  demanded 
hotly.  "  Well,  it 's  not  a  sin ;  sometimes,  per- 
haps, a  virtue,"  she  added  flippantly. 

"  Perhaps,"  Henry  repeated  as   carelessly 
as  she  herself  had  spoken. 
104 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

This  tilting  must  be  stopped,  but  how? 
The  sound  of  a  rapidly  ridden  horse  and  the 
rattle  of  father's  crutch  on  the  back  porch 
answered  me.  "  Company ! "  he  called  as  he 
came  through  the  hall.  "  How  good  it  is  to 
see  somebody  !  Emily,  when  did  you  come 
home,  Miss  ?  Pretty  as  a  peach  and  saucy  as 
ever,  I  '11  be  bound." 

Emily  swept  him  a  courtesy,  and  Henry's 
lips  twitched  scornfully  as  he  heard  the 
greeting. 

"  How  are  you,  Henry  ?  wnere  have  you 
been  keeping  yourself  ?  Why  have  n't  you 
been  up  with  Robert  before  ?  Plenty  of 
pretty  girls  around  here." 

"  Is  that  always  the  attraction  ? "  Henry 
laughed,  as  father  vigorously  shook  his  hand. 

"  It  depends  on  the  man  ;  now  you  —  " 
father  flourished  his  crutch  in  a  comprehen- 
sive sweep.  Emily  laughed. 

"  Plenty  of  ladies  visiting  the  fort,  too,  I 
hear."  Father  was  delighted  with  the  un- 
expected guests.  He  talked  glibly  and  gayly 
once  he  had  dropped  into  a  chair  and  leaned 
his  crutch  against  the  side  of  the  doorway. 
105 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  Spoiling  you  to  death,  are  they  ? "  he 
chaffed,  "  coming  to  see  you  and  bringing 
you  everything  good  to  eat  they  can  lay  their 
hands  on.  Good  times  you  are  having  now ; 
make  the  most  of  them,"  he  ended  shortly. 

For  days  father  had  been  going  about 
thoughtful  and  absorbed,  with  no  tingling, 
eager  interest  in  everything  about  him.  I 
knew  no  reason  for  it.  We  had  no  letters, 
no  papers,  yet  he  managed  to  find  out  some- 
how what  was  going  on  ;  and  while  those  of 
our  neighbors  whom  I  saw  were  jubilantly 
boastful,  he  was  grave  and  anxious. 

"  Well,"  he  added  after  a  pause,  as  if  he 
had  followed  out  a  line  of  thought  and  spoke 
its  conclusion,  "  war  has  not  come  very  close 
to  us  yet." 

"  It  will  soon,"  said  Robert,  slowly. 

"  Not  soon  enough  for  me,"  declared  Henry, 
"  I  am  going  to  it." 

"  How  ? "  The  words  from  father  were 
like  a  flash,  so  quick  were  they,  so  imperative. 

"  I  have  asked  to  be  transferred.  I  leave 
this  week."  Henry  looked  straight  before 
him  as  he  spoke;  none  of  us  dared  look  at 
106 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

Emily,  but  her  fingers  rested  on  the  porch 
rail  beneath  my  eyes.  Her  clutch  tightened 
till  her  nails  were  blue. 

"  I  thought  perhaps  you  would  lend  me  a 
horse." 

"  Certainly,  certainly  !  " 

"  To  go  and  see  my  mother." 

"  Of  course,  you  shall  have  one  in  the 
morning." 

"  I  fear  I  must  trouble  you  now.' 

"  Oh,  come  !    You  are  not  going  to-night." 

"  I  must." 

"  Man,  it  will  soon  be  dark." 

"  I  should  know  the  road  if  I  were  blind- 
folded." Henry  crimsoned  from  cheek  to 
forehead,  the  first  sign  of  shaken  composure 
he  had  shown  that  evening ;  and  suddenly 
we  recalled  the  reason  why  that  way  had 
grown  as  familiar  as  a  daily  trodden  path  — 
the  lane  from  Emily's  home  ran  into  the 
road  a  mile  away. 

Henry  recovered  himself  first  of  all.  "  It 
will  be  moonlight,"  he  said  carelessly. 

"As  you  say.  There  is  the  supper  bell. 
I  will  tell  Sam  now."  Father  hobbled  away 
107 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

on  his  errand,  as  we  went  into  the  dining- 
room.  I  made  all  the  ado  possible  over 
seating  them,  then  seized  on  the  first  topic 
I  could  think  of,  though  it  was  a  silly  one. 

Father  had  developed  one  curious  custom 
during  his  loneliness.  The  moment  he  put 
his  foot  out  of  doors  the  animals  followed 
him  in  a  train ;  but,  strangely  enough,  with 
his  friendliness  for  nearly  every  living  beast, 
he  had  no  real  fondness  for  that  companion 
of  most  men,  a  dog.  Those  on  the  planta- 
tion must  keep  to  their  place,  and  that  was 
outside  the  house,  not  within.  His  house- 
hold pets  were  cats.  Five  of  them  were 
allowed  the  freedom  of  the  place,  and  into 
most  curious  habits  father's  vigorous  will 
had  trained  them.  They  stood  now,  as  they 
did  at  every  ringing  of  the  bell,  in  a  straight 
and  sober  guard  before  the  hearth,  their  eyes 
eager,  their  tails  waving  in  wistful  interroga- 
tion-points above  their  backs. 

"  Fine  fellows,"  father  declared  when  he 
entered  and  caught  the  subject  of  our  laugh- 
ter. "  I  had  to  have  something  around  when 
Lucy  left." 

108 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  Beautiful  substitutes,"  murmured  Emily. 

"  I  am  flattered,"  I  declared.  "  Tom  is  the 
favorite,"  I  chattered  on ;  but  at  mention  of 
his  name  Tom  stepped  out  of  line.  Father's 
hand  was  instantly  on  the  slender  switch 
by  his  side ;  he  struck  the  offender  a  slight 
cut,  and  the  cat  stepped  soberly  back  into 
place. 

"How  hungry  they  look;  it  is  cruel!"  I 
cried. 

"'They  also  serve —  "  began  Robert;  but  I 
tossed  a  lump  of  sugar  at  him  which  hit  him 
deftly  on  the  cheek,  stopping  such  nonsense. 
Father  was  scandalized,  but  the  tension  was 
broken.  No  hidden  fire  of  feeling  was  left 
to  flame  suddenly  around  the  table ;  but  light 
talk  and  soft  clatter  of  china  were  within  the 
room,  and,  without,  the  sound  of  the  inrush- 
ing  tide  and  the  rustling  leaves. 

Sam  waited  at  the  back  porch  when  we 
came  out.  "  I  done  brought  de  hoss,"  he 
called. 

"  You  will  pardon  my  haste,"  Henry 
begged. 

"  You  had  better  wait  till  morning,"  father 
109 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

again  urged  him.  "  Your  mother  will  be 
abed  by  the  time  you  get  there." 

"  She  will  get  up  quickly  enough  when  she 
hears  me  call.  I  can  hear  the  dogs  barking 
now,  and  see  her  leaning  out  of  the  window," 
Henry  added  happily.  He  loved  his  mother 
devotedly. 

"  I  will  see  you  again  in  the  morning,"  he 
added  as  he  sprang  into  the  saddle,  lifted  his 
hat,  and  the  horse,  fresh  from  a  long  rest, 
cavorted  sidewise  out  of  the  gate.  As  it 
closed  behind  him  Emily  shivered.  "  I  must 
go  home,  too,"  she  declared. 

"  Why,  Emily,  the  idea !  "  I  cried.  "  You 
know  you  came  to  spend  the  night." 

"  I  will  come  again  soon.  I  must  go 
now.  I  have  been  away  from  home  so 
long.  Mother  is  not  well  either.  I  ought 
not  to  have  left  her  so  soon.  It  is  not  far 
across  the  fields ;  go  over  with  me.  You  can 
have  the  walk  back  by  yourselves,"  she  added 
mischievously. 

We  lost  both  our  guests,  but  I  am  afraid 
we  did  not  miss  them  much.  Certainly  we 
wished  for  neither  as  we  walked  homeward 
no 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

across  the  wheat  field,  the  narrow  path  be- 
tween the  tall,  yellow  grain  keeping  us  close 
to  each  other's  side.  The  wheat  ears  hung 
heavy  and  limp  with  dew,  the  smell  of  the 
ripening  grain  filled  the  air,  fireflies  twinkled 
like  fairy  lights  hung  low  and  thick ;  the 
moon  swung  high  above  us,  lighting  the 
levels  of  tall  grain,  showing  the  black  smudge 
of  the  woods  on  one  hand,  and  on  the  other 
a  gleam  of  the  river  like  a  silver  line  upon 
the  picture's  edge.  It  lighted  up  also  the 
brass  buttons  on  Robert's  coat,  the  buckle 
of  his  belt,  the  gleam  of  his  dark  eyes  be- 
neath the  wide  brim  of  his  hat. 

A  quail  whistled  cheerily  from  her  covert, 
a  whippoorwill  called  near  by.  We  loitered 
under  the  summer  sky,  its  beauties  about  us, 
its  pulses  in  our  hearts. 


in 


VIII 

HOURS  like  these  shortened  the  sum- 
mer days  and  brightened  those  of 
winter ;  the  days  between  were  gray 
and  colorless,  gladdened  only  by  hope. 

I  made  no  visits  to  the  farm,  though  Rob- 
ert went  now  and  then.  The  crops  were 
fine,  he  told  me  exultantly;  corn-house  and 
barn-loft  were  well  filled,  the  fodder-stack 
well  rounded,  the  yard  was  full  of  poultry. 
Did  I  not  wish  to  go  and  see? 

"  No,"  I  answered  imperturbably. 

"Why?" 

"  I  don't  want  to." 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  n't."  Robert 
waited  impatiently  to  see  what  1  would  say, 
but  I  did  not  speak.  I  was  remembering. 
I  recalled  that  morning  when  I  left,  the  hour 
when  Lady's  every  hoof-beat  and  every  turn 
of  the  wheel  sped  me  further  from  the  small 
house,  the  shadowing  cherry  tree,  the  stretch 

112 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

of  fields,  and  the  encircling  woods.  Go  down 
that  lane  alone, —  I  was  always  alone  without 
Robert,  —  wander  over  the  house,  leave  it 
once  more !  Some  pain  is  needless ;  this 
was  such.  I  would  stay  in  the  half-stagnant 
peace  I  had  created  for  myself.  And  so  I 
lived  until  that  peace  was  torn  with  agony, 
stunned  with  fear. 

On  a  sullen,  slow-dawning  morning  when 
the  mists  clung  close  to  the  river's  breast, 
when  there  were  no  shore-lines,  no  distances, 
but  enveloping  folds  of  drifting  fog,  we  heard, 
low,  faint,  and  dull,  the  firing  of  heavy  guns. 
We  were  at  the  breakfast  table  that  morn- 
ing, father  and  I  alone.  The  lighted  candles 
flickered  yellow  and  ghastly  against  the  gray 
light  which  shone  as  through  windows  of 
opaque  glass.  We  could  hear  the  heavy 
drops  of  mist  as  they  rolled  from  branch  to 
branch  of  the  trees,  close  outside  the  win- 
dow, and  trickled  to  the  ground ;  the  tiny 
rills  beat  drop  by  drop  from  the  shingled 
eaves ;  the  acrid  smoke  blown  down  the 
chimney  by  the  wind  stung  eyes  and 
nostrils. 

8  113 


CALLED   TO   THE    FIELD 

Father's  face  looked  ghastly  in  the  mingled 
lights ;  the  heavy  thatch  of  hair  shading  his 
forehead  made  his  blue  eyes  seem  cavernous. 

"  What  a  morning !  "  he  grumbled  when 
he  came  into  the  room.  "  Where  is  Tom  ? " 
The  other  cats  stood  in  a  row  before  the 
hearth.  "  There  he  is ;  come  here,  sir  !  " 
Father  stooped  to  stroke  his  black  fur. 
"  Faugh !  how  wet  you  are  !  Where  have 
you  been  ?  You  should  stay  in  out  of  the 
damp.  Ugh !  I  wish  it  would  pour  ;  any- 
thing would  be  better  than  this.  This  fog 
rasps  your  nerves.  Give  me  some  coffee," 
as  Sam  came  in  bringing  the  steaming 
urn. 

"Come  on,  Lucy.  No  use  standing  at 
that  window,  you  can't  see  a  yard  before 
you,  can't  see  your  hand  before  your  face. 
Come  and  get  your  breakfast." 

But  once  at  the  table  he  was  unusually 
quiet.  "  Why  don't  you  eat  ?  "  he  looked 
up  to  ask. 

"  I  am  not  hungry." 

"Sam,  pass  the  waffles  to  Miss  Lucy. 
Child,"  after  a  keen,  searching  look  at  me, 
114 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"you  are  worrying  yourself  sick;  what 's  the 
use  ?  The  very  first  gun  has  not  been  fired 
at  the  fort.  They  are  having  a  good  time 
there,  those  men.  You  had  better  be  think- 
ing about  all  the  petting  they  are  getting; 
they  will  be  spoiled  to  death.  Why  don't 
you  go  and  see  Robert  ? " 

"  He  can  come  to  see  me,"  I  answered 
proudly.  It  was  my  old  point  of  view. 

Father  chuckled. 

"  He  does  not  like  visitors  forever  com- 
ing there.  He  says  —  "  I  stopped  ;  what 
Robert  had  said  had  not  been  compliment- 
ary; it  had  been  carelessly  spoken,  and  I 
would  not  repeat  it. 

"  You  are  a  home  body  like  your  mother. 
She  used  to  declare  that  she  never  wanted 
to  lose  sight  of  the  smoke  of  her  own  chim- 
ney." Father  was  silent  for  a  while,  as  he 
always  was  after  speaking  of  mother.  The 
very  mention  of  her  seemed  to  send  his 
thoughts  back  to  recollections  to  which  he 
clung. 

I  crumbled  the  biscuit  on  my  plate  with 
idle  fingers. 

"5 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  You  should  have  more  self-control,"  he 
scolded.  "  You  don't  suppose  every  man  in 
a  battle  is  killed.  Your  great-grandfather 
fought  through  one  war  and  your  grand- 
father through  another;  I  have  missed  them 
all."  His  tone  of  regret  was  ludicrous. 

"  I  do  believe  you  are  sorry."  And  as  I 
spoke,  at  that  moment,  came  the  dull,  rever- 
berating booming  over  the  mist-covered 
river.  The  fork  I  held  fell  clattering  on  the 
thin  china  plate,  shattering  it. 

"  Oh,  my  God ! "  I  breathed  as  I  sprang 
from  my  chair. 

Father  hobbled  to  the  porch  as  fast  as  his 
crutch  could  carry  him ;  the  negroes  ran 
from  their  quarters  to  the  bluff  overlooking 
the  river,  where  the  fog  clung  like  wool.  I 
could  not  have  taken  a  step.  My  knees 
shook  under  me  as  I  listened  to  those 
sounds  which  boomed  and  thundered  and 
echoed  through  the  fog,  and  set  my  being  a- 
quiver  in  response  to  their  last  faint  roll. 
So  I  stood  when  father,  remembering  me, 
hurried  back.  He  started  to  speak,  but  I 
did  not  hear;  I  rushed  past  him  up  to  my 
116 


CALLED   TO    THE    FIELD 

room,  and  flung  myself  down  beneath  that 
deep  window  looking  riverward.  "  God  !  " 
I  cried,  "  God  !  " 

Not  another  thought  did  my  heart  hold, 
not  a  single  word  could  I  frame ;  but  as  the 
silence  settled  and  the  mist-drops  rolled  like 
far-off  guns  to  my  excited  fancy,  I  breathed 
a  prayer  with  that  cry :  "  God,  keep  him  ! 
Save  him  !  God,  keep  him  safe  !  " 

No  faintest  notion  of  prayer  had  I  beyond 
that  formula  of  a  daily  plea  founded  upon 
and  built  about  the  prayer  my  mother  had 
taught  me.  Grown  woman  that  I  was,  my 
lips  had  framed  none  other  than  that  which 
at  night-tide  acknowledged  my  homage  to 
the  God  of  heaven  and  of  earth  —  though  it 
was  to  the  first  I  bent  my  knee ;  that  far-off, 
misty  divinity  which  it  comforts  one  to  think 
of,  when  all  goes  well,  as  ruling  with  benign 
justice  the  universe. 

I,  a  part  of  His  creation,  had  lived  as  un- 
questioningly  as  a  bird  sings  her  song  of 
summer ;  but  now  when  agony  tore  at  my 
heart,  I  sent  a  cry  up  to  His  remoteness.  I 
remembered  that  other  word  by  which  he 
117 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

was  sometimes  called :  I  supplicated  not 
only  God,  but  Father. 

The  mists  folded  back  from  the  river,  and 
the  low  clouds  came  down  in  rain,  which 
rolled  on  the  roof  and  hissed  in  the  hearth ; 
but  nothing  drowned  those  other  sounds. 

I  heard  father's  voice,  and,  stumbling  to 
my  feet,  went  down  the  stair  to  the  hall 
where  he  waited  me.  "  Lucy,  Lucy !  "  he 
called  as  I  staggered  on  the  last  step. 
"  Come  out  into  the  air." 

But  as  he  opened  the  door  the  reverbera- 
tion, which  had  for  a  short  time  ceased,  broke 
out  anew,  long,  sullen,  and  insistent.  I  ran 
out  into  the  yard.  I  felt  as  if  I  must  clutch 
the  hated  folds  of  rain  and  mist,  tear  them 
asunder,  wrench  from  them  the  secret  that 
cloud  and  distance  held. 

"  You  are  getting  soaking  wet ! "  father 
cried.  "  Sam,  run,  bring  Miss  Lucy's  shawl." 
Father  hobbled  after  me  with  it,  and  folded 
it  about  my  head  and  shoulders  ;  he  himself 
was  bareheaded,  with  the  rain-drops  clinging 
to  his  thick  silver  hair.  I  saw  them  when 
I  looked  up  to  thank  him,  but  when  his  eyes 
118 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

met  mine  he  cried  out :  "  Child,  child!  "  and 
then  he  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  bent 
close  to  me.  "  You  must  be  brave." 

"  I  cannot." 

"  You  must  hope." 

The  tremble  of  my  lip  answered  him. 

"  At  least  you  are  not  going  to  stay  out 
here.  Get  in,  every  one  of  you !  "  to  the 
trembling  servants.  "  Get  to  work." 

But  how  could  they?  How  could  we 
wait  with  any  show  of  self-control,  of  pa- 
tience ?  I  made  no  pretence  of  it.  I  sank 
down  into  a  chair  in  the  parlor,  when  the 
booming  began  again.  "  Oh,  God !  "  I  cried, 
as  I  flung  my  arms  above  my  head,  "  to 
think  that  any  bomb  we  have  heard  may 
have  been  his  death,  that  he  may  now  be 
dead  i  I  cannot  endure  it." 

"  You  have  got  to." 

"  I  cannot." 

"  There  have  been  no  cowards  in  our 
family,"  —  with  cutting  sternness. 

"  What  do  you  know  of  cowards,"  I  blazed  ; 
"you,  a  man  who  knows  what  it  is  to  be  in 
the  midst  of  things  ?  " 

119 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

I  did  not  heed  the  bitterness  of  the  single 
word  he  spoke:  "Yes." 

"  To  fight,  to  die  —  it  is  easy.  It  is  quickly 
done,  there  is  not  a  breath  for  thought ;  but 
the  woman  at  home,  safe,  protected,  —  ah, 
yes,  and  cared  for,  —  she  knows  that  battles 
rage,  that  the  one  being  whose  life  is  more 
than  life  to  her  is  in  the  midst  of  them ;  that 
any  second  may  end  it  —  and  she  not  even 
know  for  days,  for  weeks.  It  is  the  uncer- 
tainty of  it  which  kills.  And  she  must  sit 
at  home  and  be  brave,  you  say ;  pshaw !  speak 
truth !  She  must  sit  and  suffer." 

"  Lucy,"  said  father,  very  gently,  as  if  he 
were  afraid  of  me,  "  where  did  you  hear  such 
things?" 

"  I  never  heard,"  I  flamed ;  "  I  know." 

"  Well,  well,"  soothingly,  "  it  is  no  time 
for  hard  words,"  —  he  walked  restlessly  about 
the  room,  —  "  but  for  patience,  patience  and 
bravery." 

He  went  to  the  window,  out  to  the  hall ; 
I  heard  the  porch  door  close ;  I  knew  he  was 
again  outside.  It  was  useless  to  urge  any- 
thing but  listening,  watching;  the  negroes 
1 20 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

gathered  again  upon  the  bluff  under  the 
tall  mulberries,  their  faces  ashy  with  fear, 
the  rain  standing  thick  on  their  woolly  heads. 
At  noon  the  clouds  lifted,  rolled  back  from 
the  horizon,  and  drifted  away.  Our  world 
lay  before  us  —  tender  mists  on  the  opposite 
shores,  green  grass  before  our  door,  blue 
skies  overhead. 

That  day  was  but  the  beginning.  At 
evening,  morning,  or  noon,  but  never  again 
incessant,  the  cannonading  was  heard.  There 
was  no  heavy  firing  after  that  first  day  or 
two,  but  the  constant  menace,  the  never- 
long-silent  reminder  by  the  enemy  of  a 
victory  already  won  whose  fruits  could  be 
waited  for;  for  not  a  gun  from  the  forts 
on  either  side  of  the  York  could  equal  the 
attacking  party's  range. 

How  I  lived  from  day  to  day  I  do  not 
know;  I  slept  as  if  I  were  dead  from  ex- 
haustion ;  I  ate  because  father  made  me. 
His  strong  will  kept  every  wheel  of  the 
plantation  life  moving.  He  ordered  the 
spring  work,  the  ploughing,  the  planting,  as 
if  there  were  no  such  things  as  danger  and 

121 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

war.  When  I  made  some  comment  on  it 
he  was  ablaze  with  indignation. 

"  What  do  you  expect  me  to  do  ?  sit  down 
and  hold  my  hands  because  there  is  a  gun- 
boat down  the  York  River  ?  We  are  all  here, 
we  are  all  alive ;  don't  we  get  hungry  ? 
have  n't  the  negroes  to  be  fed  ?  Who  is 
going  to  do  it,  I  wonder?  No,  sir,  every- 
thing will  go  on  just  the  same.  The  land 
is  in  good  condition,  splendid ;  I  will  plant 
more  corn  than  ever;  yes,  sir,  just  to  let  the 
neighbors  see.  Scared  half  to  death  they 
are,  some  of  them,  sitting  still,  doing  noth- 
ing. What's  the  use?  There  is  just  one 
way  in  this  world  to  live  —  to  plan  as  if  we 
were  to  live  forever,  and  then  to  live  each 
day  as  if  it  were  our  last." 

It  was  late  in  May  that  he  handed  me 
a  letter,  and  listened  neither  to  my  cry  of 
delight  nor  to  any  question  as  to  how  he 
had  gotten  it,  but  shortly  bade  me  read  it. 
The  blessed  lines  were  of  Robert's  forming. 

DEAR  LUCY  [it  began,  coldly  enough],  —  I  have 
just  heard  from  your  father  — 

"  When  did  you  write  ? "  I  demanded. 
122 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  Read  on." 

and  written  him  concerning  you  both.  You  must 
do  as  he  has  advised.  It  may  be  hard  for  you 
to  go  back  home  without  me  —  as  you  have 
always  declared  you  would  not  do  —  but  you 
must  go  now.  This  fort  and  Yorktown  must  be 
evacuated.  As  soon  as  it  is  known  that  we  have 
left,  the  enemy  will  occupy  them.  The  river  will 
be  patrolled  by  gunboats,  and  the  adjacent  coun- 
try will  be  under  their  control.  Bellevue  is  too 
conspicuous  to  escape. 

There  is  no  time  to  write  the  words  I  long  to 
say  [how  stiff  he  was !]  ;  nor  is  it  well  to  harrow 
you  with  vain  wishes.  May  Providence  watch 
over  and  protect  you,  and  may  there  be  yet 
many  happy  days  in  store  for  us  both. 

ROBERT. 

P.  S.  We  evacuate  the  fort  to-morrow  and  march 
to  Richmond. 

When  I  looked  up  at  father  he  was  startled. 
It  was  the  joy  he  saw  in  my  face,  I  think.  He 
had  expected  tears  or  remonstrances,  possibly; 
but  I  had  only  one  thought  for  that  moment. 
I  held  in  my  hands  the  lines  which  Robert 
himself  had  pencilled  ;  he  was  safe  and  well. 
"  How  did  you  get  it?" 

"  I  sent  Sam." 

123 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  And  did  n't  let  me  know!  " 

"I  —  I  —  well,  I  did  what  was  best.  You 
see  what  he  says  ?  "  impatiently. 

Then  it  began  to  strike  home  to  me. 

"  You  understand  ? " 

Yes,  I  understood.  I  had  been  slow  enough, 
stupid  enough,  but  now  I  knew.  We  were 
to  run  away,  to  leave  the  old  house  because 
it  was  threatened  and  unsafe.  In  a  passion 
of  revolt  I  knew  how  I  loved  it.  If  I  had 
ever  thought  that  the  ties  which  bound  me 
to  it  were  frail,  I  knew  now  how  strong  they 
were.  All  the  love  of  home  and  associations 
woke  with  a  thousand  clamoring  voices  and 
tugged  but  the  stronger  at  my  heart  be- 
cause they  had  slumbered.  I  looked  about 
me,  at  the  porch,  the  trees,  the  river;  the 
wide  yard  and  white-paled  garden  and  vine- 
wreathed  summer-house ;  the  weather-stained 
brick  house,  with  wing  stretched  toward  the 
quarters ;  and  father's  glance  followed  mine 
as  passionately.  "  Well,  well ! "  he  cried 
hoarsely,  "  I  feared  it  long  ago.  I  saw  it 
coming.  I  knew  the  forts  could  not  be  held. 
They  have  been  longer  than  I  thought,  or 
124 


CALLED    TO    THE   FIELD 

they  have  been  slower  in  Richmond.  It 's 
a  wonder  they  did  n't  see  it  long  ago.  It 's 
a  mercy  that  they  have  lost  but  one  life  — 
bombs  bursting  at  any  hour,  on  the  embank- 
ments, inside  the  fort." 

"  You  told  me  there  was  no  danger,"  I  ac- 
cused hotly. 

"  Never  !  I  said  —  Well,  it  will  soon  be 
over  now.  I  sent  Sam  to  find  out  what 
Robert  thought." 

"  Why  did  n't  you  let  me  know  he  was 
going  ?  "  I  again  demanded. 

"  Humph !  You  would  have  had  a  dozen 
fits ;  would  have  written  page  after  page, 
and  cried  yourself  blind  over  every  one  of 
them.  No,  I  just  sent  him  off  quietly." 

"  How  is  Robert  ?     What  did  he  say  ?  " 

Father  laughed.  "  There  is  Sam,"  point- 
ing with  his  crutch  barnward.  "  Go,  see  for 
yourself."  And  I  ran  out  to  make  a  hundred 
inquiries. 

But  I  learned  little  that  I  did  not  already 
know.  The  letter  was  written  the  day  be- 
fore. Even  then  the  fort  might  be  evacu- 
ated and  the  soldiers  on  the  march ;  soon 
125 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

the  gunboats  might  show,  sullen  and  strong, 
proclaiming  their  ownership  of  the  waterway, 
and  lie  at  last  before  West  Point.  This  time 
there  would  be  no  resistance  from  irregular 
soldiery  flushed  with  enthusiasm.  The  men 
were  with  the  regiments  far  away,  those 
marching  from  the  forts  being  the  last 
to  go. 

We  made  a  frenzy  of  preparation  for 
flight.  The  house  was  to  be  locked  ;  the 
negroes  were  to  live  in  their  cabins  and  keep 
as  closely  as  possibly  to  the  old  routine ;  one 
of  their  number  was  left  in  charge,  and  father 
would  be  back  and  forth.  Our  trunks  were 
packed  and  started  off  by  midday ;  and  in 
the  afternoon,  as  I  came  down  the  wide  stair 
after  some  last  work  in  the  rooms  above,  I 
stopped  on  the  landing  for  one  long  look  at 
the  wide  hall,  where  the  springtide  shadows 
showed  along  the  floor.  As  I  paused,  father 
called  me  imperatively. 

He  stood  in  the  porch  door,  his  face  red 
with  excitement;  and  his  hand  shook  as  he 
lifted  his  crutch  to  point  with  it.  "  Look  !  " 
he  commanded. 

126 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

Forging  up  the  river,  cutting  the  pathway 
of  the  sunset  asunder,  the  smoke  hanging  in 
black  rolling  clouds  above  her  stacks,  came 
the  first  gunboat  of  the  enemy. 

A  very  passion  of  resentment  and  rebel- 
lion seized  me.  I  whipped  off  the  shawl  of 
crimson  crepe  I  had  thrown  around  my 
shoulders  and  waved  it  wildly  above  my 
head.  "  Hurrah !  "  I  cried.  "  Hurrah  for  Jef- 
ferson Davis  and  The  Confederate  States !  " 

Father  wheeled ;  the  angry  light  shone 
like  steel  in  his  eyes.  "  Look  at  her !  "  he 
cried,  pointing  his  crutch  scornfully  toward 
me ;  and  then  with  the  very  essence  of  sar- 
casm in  his  voice,  "  And,  man,  she  would 
run  from  a  black  bug ! " 


127 


IX 


WHEN  I  had  blown  out  my  candle 
that  night  I  stood  under  the  slop- 
ing roof  of  the  dormer  window  for 
a  long  look  outwards.  The  mulberries  were 
in  full  leaf,  the  river,  where  it  showed  through 
their  foliage,  ran  gray  and  dusky  except  for 
the  mirrored  stars  flashed  here  and  there 
from  rippling  waves ;  and  its  mighty  and 
resistless  rush,  with  the  mystery  of  night 
and  silence,  touched  me  with  awe.  There 
is  some  instinct  deep  within  me  which 
quickens  with  sympathy  for  those  who,  not 
understanding  the  great  and  loving  spirit  of 
God,  peopled  the  dim  vistas  of  the  woods, 
the  bubbling  springs,  the  sparkling  rills,  the 
rivers'  flow,  the  tides  of  the  sea  and  its  still 
depths  with  deities.  Either  must  I  have 
adored  the  spirit  of  each  or  believed  in  the 
Father  of  all.  How  else  could  the  chill  of 
the  blood,  the  adoration  of  the  soul,  the 
stilling  of  one's  breath,  be  born? 
128 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

Something  in  the  forces  of  nature  thrills 
each  soul.  The  child,  or  a  people  in  its 
childhood,  interprets  such  feeling  by  attribut- 
ing to  those  phases  which  touch  the  human 
heart  most  deeply  some  attendant  spirit 
striving  to  make  its  influence  felt  through 
the  grosser  human  part  to  the  finer  spiritual. 
The  full-grown  man,  the  nation  come  to  its 
maturity,  realizes  in  all  the  One  Great  God 
who  alike  counts  the  unseen  stars  and  num- 
bers the  hairs  of  our  head  and  sees  the  beauty 
of  the  lilies  of  the  field. 

I  leaned  against  the  sloping  walls,  the  long 
plaits  of  my  hair  trailing  across  the  wide  sill, 
my  soul  gone  out  in  some  vague  wandering 
which  words  could  not  hold  nor  tell.  How 
long  I  saw  it  before  I  was  conscious  of  it  I 
do  not  know,  but  slowly  I  became  aware  of  a 
figure  moving  beyond  the  mulberries.  I  lost 
it  in  the  shadows,  by  the  obscurings  of  the 
branches,  but  caught  it  again  standing  boldly 
and  watchfully  on  the  bluff,  and  I  turned  icy 
with  the  first  fear  I  had  felt  that  day. 

My  voice  shook  when  I  leaned  over  the 
balusters  and  called,  "  Father  1 " 
9  129 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

He  answered  instantly. 

"  Who  is  that  out  in  the  yard  ?  "  I  asked, 
when  he  stood  below  me  in  the  hall. 

"  Where  ?  "  —  with  an  alertness  which 
quickened  my  pulses. 

"  Under  the  trees,  watching  the  house." 

"  Oh,  Sam !  "  There  was  evident  relief  in 
his  voice. 

"  What  is  he  doing  ? "  I  insisted. 

"  Oh !  I  thought  he  had  better  be  on  the 
lookout ;  no  telling  what  might  happen. 
Danger  ?  not  the  least  bit  of  it.  I  just 
thought  —  well,  it  will  do  no  harm  to  be 
on  the  safe  side.  Run  along  back  to  bed, 
go  right  to  sleep ;  you  will  have  to  be  up 
early  in  the  morning." 

Obedience  to  one  part  of  that  command 
was  impossible.  I  lay  long  awake,  shivering 
with  some  feeling  which  was  neither  cold  nor 
fear,  but  a  keen  physical  discomfort  to  which 
Sam's  footsteps  were  a  constant  incentive.  So 
I  was  asleep  at  dawn  and  had  to  be  awakened. 
I  hurried  into  my  clothes  and  down  into  the 
dining-room,  but  the  meal  had  been  already 
served.  Father  sat  in  his  chair,  and  behind 
130 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

him,  with  expectant  faces  turned  tablewards 
and  their  tails  waving  high  in  air,  stood  the 
cats  in  solemn  array.  Tom  alone  was  miss- 
ing. Father  watched  the  door  impatiently. 
When  he  emptied  the  cream  jug  into  a  bowl 
which  he  placed  carefully  on  the  hearth,  the 
black  had  not  yet  appeared.  I  paid  little  at- 
tention to  father's  complaints  concerning  it, 
for  it  seemed  too  trivial  at  such  a  time.  The 
carriage  stood  ready  at  the  door,  and  crowded 
about  the  porch  the  negroes  waited.  It  was 
the  hour  I  most  dreaded. 

"  Are  you  ready  ?  "  I  called  to  father. 

He  came  out  on  the  porch,  a  frown  of 
anxiety  showing  deep  between  his  brows. 
"  Has  Sam  had  his  breakfast  ? "  he  asked,  as 
he  looked  at  me,  and  then  at  the  sorrowful 
crowd  near  me. 

"  Yes,  sah,"  answered  Sam,  standing  at  the 
horse's  head. 

Molly  by  my  side  had  flung  her  apron  over 
her  head,  and  beneath  its  shelter  was  sobbing 
and  moaning.  "  Father,"  I  begged,  "  let  us 
go  at  once  and  as  quietly  as  we  can ;  if  we 
wait  —  " 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"Well,  well!  Just  get  ready."  He  hob- 
bled away  to  the  stables. 

"  Marse  Willum  done  gone  to  look  fer 
Tom,"  chuckled  Sam. 

"  What  does  he  want  with  him  ?  "  I  asked, 
tartly.  It  was  ridiculous  to  have  father  fuss- 
ing over  a  cat  at  such  a  time. 

"  La !  don't  you  know  ?  He  's  gwine  carry 
ebery  las'  cat  erway  wid  him."  Sam's  long 
lank  body  fairly  doubled  up  as  he  laughed. 
"  He  done  tole  me  las'  night  to  bring  him  a 
bag,  a  big,  strong  one;  an'  den  dis  mornin' 
Tom  he  's  a-missin'." 

"  What  in  the  world  put  such  an  idea  in 
father's  head?" 

"  Miss  Lucy,  Marse  Willum  done  pet  dem 
cats  too  long.  He  cyarnt  go  erway  an'  leab 
'em.  He  knows  't  ain't  a  niggah  on  dis  place 
will  tek  cyar  o'  dem.  Niggahs  'spises  cats 
mos'  in  gin'ral,  anyways ;  dey  wants  a  houn' 
dog  ebery  time,  an'  houn's  an'  cats  dey  neb- 
bah  did  git  erlong  togeddah ;  and  Marse 
Willum  he  cyarnt  leab  'em ;  an'  he  don't 
know  how  to  leab  ary  colt  or  calf  or  nig- 
gah on  dis  place.  He  '11  carry  you  home, 
132 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

but   he  '11  be  back  hyar  mos'  de  time,  you 
see." 

I  had  been  long  learning  father's  pitying 
heart.  Even  now  it  took  Sam  to  open  my 
eyes,  Sam  whom  none  of  us  accounted  very 
sensible,  and  whom  I  had  spent  hours  in 
teaching. 

"  'T  warnt  fer  you,"  he  went  on  talking  to 
the  sable  ring  of  his  audience  as  well  as  to 
me,  "  he  would  n't  go  a  step.  Think  he  'd 
run  erway  —  Marse  Willum  ?  Lan',  he  ain't 
feard  of  nuthin'  in  dis  worl',  he  'd  nebbah 
leab  dis  place.  But  he  cyarnt  keep  you 
hyar,  an'  he  cyarnt  leab  you  dyar  by  yo'  se'f 
—  an'  dyar  'tis." 

A  sympathetic  understanding  of  his  words 
was  on  every  face  near  me.  With  their 
instinct  they  had  divined  a  situation  which 
had  disclosed  no  part  of  itself  to  me  but 
the  necessary  action.  I  looked  at  Sam, 
at  Molly's  covered  head,  at  every  sorrowful 
face.  I  went  from  one  to  another  —  No,  I 
will  not  write  that!  I  cannot  picture  that 
leave-taking.  Father  came  back  before  I  had 
finished  and  waited  for  me  by  the  buggy. 
133 


CALLED   TO    THE    FIELD 

tt  Lucy,"  he  began,  "  would  you  mind  — 
Child,  don't  sob  so!  make  it  as  easy  for 
them  as  you  can;  you  know  how  they  will 
grieve  anyhow.  Would  you  mind  if  I  did  n't 
go  with  you  ?  Sam  can  take  you.  I  will  be 
there  by  night." 

A  sudden  fear  of  the  loneliness  I  might 
feel  smote  me.  "  You  will  certainly  come," 
I  begged. 

"  Yes,  yes ;  certainly.     You  don't  mind." 

"  N-o." 

"  Tell  them  good-by  again,"  father  whis- 
pered, nodding  to  those  crowding  about  us. 
"  Say  it  bravely.  It 's  just  for  a  little  while. 
You  will  be  back  again  soon.  Pshaw !  you 
must  n't  mind  it,  nor  they  either.  Come ! " 

So  I  held  my  head  high,  even  if  my  eyes 
were  wet,  and  went  once  more  from  one  to 
another.  As  I  sprang  into  the  carriage  I 
heard  father's  low,  "  Quick,  Sam  !  The  gate 
is  open;  drive  on."  I  looked  back  to  see 
him  standing  straight  and  tall  against  a  pillar 
watching  me ;  but  the  vision  was  but  short- 
lived. Sam  drove  at  break-neck  speed,  and 
the  road  was  none  too  smooth. 
134 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

When  we  reached  the  woods  we  went 
slowly.  The  land  was  low  and  swampy; 
the  growth  of  tree  and  bush  and  vine,  rank. 
A  corduroy  road  stretched  along  half  a  mile 
which,  but  for  its  bridging,  would  have  been 
sometimes  impassable;  rails  and  poles  were 
alike  hidden  under  a  slush  of  black  mud. 
The  horse,  knowing  his  long  task,  went  with 
bent  head  and  slow  step ;  we  bumped  and 
jolted  over  the  rough  way. 

Half-way  across  we  heard  a  horseman 
strike  the  other  end.  The  horse,  Sam,  and 
I,  alike,  pricked  up  our  ears  and  kept  a  sharp 
lookout  ahead;  we  turned  a  shaded  curve 
and  met  Robert  riding  gayly  toward  us. 
How  splendid  he  looked !  Was  he  hand- 
some ?  A  stranger  would  have  noted  first 
his  thatch  of  thick  red  hair;  but  his  broad, 
white  forehead,  his  deep-set,  dark  eyes,  his 
firm,  well-moulded  chin  —  I  was  not  analyz- 
ing then.  I  looked  and  looked,  my  breath 
but  a  light  flutter  of  delight  in  my  throat. 
Shadow  and  sunlight  flickered  over  him  and 
over  Lady's  velvety  flanks. 

"  Sam,  you  rascal !  Get  down  there,"  were 
135 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

his  first  words.  "  You  can  ride  my  horse ;  I 
will  drive."  Sam  was  out  in  an  instant,  and 
in  another  was  on  Lady's  back.  Robert  was 
by  my  side. 

"  Ride  on ! "  he  commanded  the  grinning 
negro.  "  And  you  need  n't  look  back." 
Robert's  brown  eyes  twinkled  as  he  warned 
him. 

"  We  evacuated  the  fort  yesterday,"  he 
explained,  after  the  first  blissful  moment  of 
our  meeting.  "  We  are  on  the  march  to 
Richmond.  I  got  permission  to  come  by 
and  say — and  see  you,"  he  corrected  him- 
self quickly.  "  Lady  is  so  swift  I  can  catch 
up  with  the  regiment  by  noon."  He  told 
their  line  of  march  and  where  he  could  over- 
take them.  "  I  was  afraid  you  would  be 
gone." 

"  An  hour  later  and  you  would  have 
missed  me." 

"  But  you  see  I  did  not." 

I  had  never  seen  Robert  in  gayer  mood. 

If  any  trace  of  the  emotion  which  had  racked 

me  was  visible  on  face  or  in  manner  he  gave 

no  sign  of  seeing  it.     We  stole  that  hour 

136 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

between  his  long  absences  and  a  future 
which  might  hold  any  fate;  our  spirits 
sprang  to  meet  it  as  blithely  as  the  birds 
sang  in  the  hoary  trees  arching  overhead. 
I  told  the  tale  of  father's  perplexity,  and  he 
laughed  delightedly;  it  was  easy  to  be  gay 
while  the  sun  shone,  the  fresh  breeze  beat 
against  my  face,  and  Robert  was  by  my  side. 
I  even  forgot  my  own  affairs  long  enough 
to  talk  of  Emily's.  Where  was  Henry?  I 
asked.  In  what  regiment  had  he  enlisted  ? 
When  had  he  been  heard  from  ?  I  scarcely 
noticed  Robert's  uneasy  manner,  though  I 
remembered  it  afterwards,  his  short  replies, 
his  broken  phrases  of  "difficult  service," 
"  uncertain  headquarters,"  nor  how  com- 
pletely he  turned  the  theme  to  Emily. 

I  could  not  tell  him  much  of  her.  In  the 
fear  of  those  last  months  the  households  on 
the  distant  farms  had  shrunken  into  them- 
selves. Little  visiting  was  done.  Emily 
and  her  mother  had  been  left  alone  at  home, 
and  we  wondered  if  they  would  take  refuge 
in  Middlesex  or  if  they  would  dare  to  stay ; 
the  long  windings  of  the  creek  before  their 
137 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

house  was  reached  seemed  to  render  them 
secure. 

The  horse  went  slowly,  and  the  moments 
were  crowded  with  quick  words ;  but  the 
river  road  came  at  last  to  the  county  road, 
and  there  sat  Sam  on  Lady,  the  sunlight 
shining  on  her  dappled  sides. 

Robert  had  said  good-by  before  we  came 
to  the  meeting  of  the  roads,  while  we  were 
still  out  of  sight  of  Sam's  mischievous  eyes, 
but  this  was  the  parting.  He  jumped  from 
the  buggy  as  Sam  slipped  from  the  horse ; 
I,  too,  was  in  the  road  before  Sam  knew  it. 

"  I  am  going  to  say  good-by  to  Lady,"  I 
cried  hysterically,  as  I  ran  up  to  her,  leaned 
my  cheek  against  her  slender  head,  and 
stroked  it  gently.  All  thought,  all  feeling 
was  benumbed ;  how  could  I  let  him  go,  now, 
at  last?  I  looked  at  the  familiar  road,  the 
pines  bordering  it  on  one  hand,  the  weather- 
worn fence  shutting  in  the  fields  on  the 
other,  —  the  wild  roses  and  blackberries 
abloom  in  its  corners,  —  the  cloud  of  white 
butterflies  fluttering  over  a  pool  drying  by 
the  wayside,  up  at  the  soft  white  clouds  drift* 
138 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

ing  overhead.  So  I  had  seen  it  on  any 
summer's  day  of  my  eighteen  years;  I  had 
come  to  it,  now,  for  this  crucial  moment. 

Robert  would  not  look  at  me.  The  sub- 
lime yet  sad  truth  we  learn  in  the  agoniz- 
ing hour  of  life  is  that  we  must  face  such 
moments  alone.  The  great  things  of  the 
soul  are  settled  with  God,  not  man.  Robert 
knew  that  I  myself  must  gather  the  strength 
I  needed ;  he  mercifully  left  me  to  do  it. 
He  bent  above  the  wild  roses,  making  a 
pretence  of  plucking  them. 

I  leaned  harder  against  Lady,  pulled  her 
head  lower,  and  into  her  silken  ear  whispered 
a  command ;  then  I  felt  a  touch  on  my 
shoulder. 

"  I  must  go,  dear."  Robert  put  his  hand 
filled  with  roses  upon  my  shoulder,  and  stood 
looking  down  at  me.  "  Remember,  I  leave 
you  in  charge  at  home,"  he  warned  gently. 
"  'Zekiel  takes  all  his  orders  from  you." 

It  seemed  absurd.  I  looked  up  quickly, 
and  met  Robert's  glance ;  he  smiled  bravely, 
but  was  there  a  suspicion  of  moisture  in  his 
eyes? 

139 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  So  I  told  him  when  I  was  home  a  week 
ago.  I  knew  this  must  come.  You  must 
let  me  go  now." 

He  caught  me  up,  lifted  me  into  the  buggy, 
and  put  the  roses  on  my  lap  —  he  knew  my 
love  of  them.  We  gazed  at  each  other  for 
a  breath's  space  while  the  pines  sighed  softly. 
"  The  roses  at  home  are  blooming,  too,"  he 
said  as  he  stepped  aside,  and  waved  to  Sam. 
But  when  I  saw  him  last  he  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  road,  his  head  bared,  his  face 
toward  us ;  Lady,  by  the  roadside  had  turned 
her  head  and  was  watching  him  with  big, 
questioning  eyes. 


140 


"  T  WILL  never  go  back  without  you." 
I  had  said  it  to  Robert  and  vowed 
it  to  myself ;  but  when  the  road 
plunged  into  the  wood,  when  the  horse 
trotted  noiselessly  and  the  wheels  made  no 
sound  on  the  thick  pine-needles,  when  the 
great  trees  interlaced  their  wide  branches 
overhead,  my  heart  lightened  of  its  intoler- 
able load.  I  seemed  nearer  Robert  with 
every  turn  of  the  wheel ;  and  when  I  stood 
in  the  doorway,  and  saw  the  roses  abloom, 
as  he  had  said,  I  felt  a  touch  of  companion- 
ship which  was  as  inexpressible  as  it  was 
intangible.  I  could  meet  Mammy  with  a 
face  almost  as  shining  as  her  own. 

"  Lan',  Miss  Lucy,  but  I  is  glad  to  see 
you !  Why  did  n't  you  come  befo'  ?  Why 
did  n't  you  come  wid  Marse  Robert  ?  What 
you  mean  by  leabin'  me  all  dese  days,  an' 
you  ain't  nebbah  pahted  from  me  befo'  since 

141 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

de  day  you  was  bohn  ?  I  come  mighty  nigh 
comin'  up  dyar  to  Bellevue  myse'f,  deed  I 
did.  I  was  fair  pinin'  fer  de  sight  o'  you." 
Mammy  bustled  about,  putting  my  bundles 
away,  hanging  up  my  clothes,  doing  a  dozen 
small  services  while  she  talked. 

"  I  was  jes  fair  sot  on  it  one  time,  but 
Marse  Robert  he  come  'long  'bout  dat  time 
an'  he  say  '  no.'  Jes  sot  right  down  hyar  in 
yo'  own  chair,  I  wants  to  look  at  you  good. 
Er  !  hum  !  "  with  long  keen  scutiny.  If  she 
saw  any  change  to  deplore  or  to  admire 
she  held  her  peace  concerning  it.  "  Lan' !  " 
she  exclaimed  again.  "  Ise  glad  to  have  you 
back.  Ise  gwine  keep  you  dis  time  sho  an' 
tek  cyar  o'  you  good,  dat  I  is.  I  done  prom- 
ised Marse  Robert  so  when  he  come  home. 
'Warnt  wuth  while  fer  him  to  ax  me.  He 
say,  '  'Ria,  you  gwine  look  after  Miss  Lucy 
good  fer  me  ? '  an'  I  says,  *  I  gwine  look  after 
her  good  fer  myse'f,  Ise  been  doin'  dat  ebbah 
since  she  was  'bout  one  hour  ole.'  'Twas 
kind  o'  sassy,  but  I  was  teched  up.  '  Ain't 
dat  my  chile  ? '  I  says ;  an'  he  say,  '  Yes, 
so  'tis.'  But  den  he  sort  o'  smiled  an'  say 

142 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

low,  lak  he  talkin'  to  hisse'f,  '  an'  my  wife. 
You  mus'  tek  cyar  o'  her  fer  bof,'  he  'clared 
loud  an'  strong.  An'  I  gwine  do  it,  honey ; 
you  trus'  yo'  Mammy  fer  dat. 

"When  is  Marse  Willum  comin'?"  she 
asked  suddenly,  for  we  had  both  fallen  silent 
after  that  speech  about  Robert,  and  it  was 
best  we  should  not. 

"  To-night." 

"  Dat  so  ?  Well,  dyar  's  jes  a  hundred 
things  to  see  befo'  den.  I  wants  you  to 
see  de  chicken-coops  jes  one  time,  chock-a- 
block,  ebery  one  o'  dem,  wid  de  purtiest 
things  you  ebbah  sot  yo'  eyes  on.  An'  de 
yaller,  she's  hatchin'  scattering  same  as 
usual." 

"  How  is  Miss  Nancy?  "  I  asked,  when  we 
were  out  in  the  yard. 

"  She  's  got  de  rheumatiz.  De  Lawd  only 
knows  why  she  ain't  daid  wid  it  long  ergo, 
goin'  erroun'  dressed  up  lak  a  scan'lous  ghos'. 
She's  a-payin'  fer  her  foolishness,  sho." 

"  I  must  go  and  see  her,"  I  declared  at 
once. 

"  'Deed,  you  mus',  honey.  She  done  axed 
143 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

aftah  you,  an5  axed  aftah  you.  Lan' !  dyar  's 
'Zekiel !  Ef  he  ain't  come  a-trapsin'  clean  up 
from  de  'baccer  fiel' !  an'  Dick  's  a-trottin'  at 
his  heels.  Dey  is  done  heard  somehow  dat 
you  is  come.  Praise  de  Lamb !  dis  place 
ain't  gwine  be  so  lonesome  now.  Look  at 
'em,"  she  chuckled;  "jes  grinnin'  till  ebery 
toof  dey  got  is  shinin'." 

I  was  besieged  between  them.  'Zekiel  in 
one  breath  wanted  to  tell  me  all  the  state 
of  the  farm :  what  fields  were  planted,  which 
lying  waste  for  rest ;  how  many  calves  frisked 
in  the  pasture;  to  boast  of  a  week-old  colt 
within  the  stable.  Mammy  was  as  urgent 
about  her  affairs  of  lock-room  and  hen-house. 
It  took  short  time  to  find  that  the  half- 
ruined  place  which  Robert  had  bought  had 
been  reclaimed  to  prosperity ;  well  tilled 
fields  and  mended  fences  and  improved 
out-buildings  all  bespoke  it,  and  seeing  their 
state  I  recalled  Robert's  plea :  "  Take  care 
of  everything  for  me ! " 

I  felt  as  if  in  solemn  charge.  I  was  once 
more  Lucy  Aylett.  At  Bellevue  I  had  felt 
myself  my  father's  daughter,  though  changed 

144 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

and  unreal ;  here,  rimmed  by  the  pines,  far-off 
from  all  that  I  had  known,  save  as  Robert's 
wife,  I  found  before  the  day  was  over  one 
precious  thing,  —  myself. 

Every  hour  was  full  until  father  came.  He 
rode  in  his  gig,  and  as  his  horse  came  tearing 
at  break-neck  speed  down  the  lane,  the  spokes 
of  his  wheels,  revolving  in  the  level  beams  of 
the  low-swinging  sun,  were  radiant  in  their 
light.  His  face  was  anxious  and  furrowed, 
his  lips  straight-set,  as  he  flung  down  the 
reins  and  the  horse  instantly  came  to  a 
stand-still. 

I  ran  out  to  meet  him.  "  How  long  you 
have  been  !  "  I  called. 

"Yes,  yes!  I  couldn't  help  it."  He 
brightened  at  the  sound  of  my  cheerful 
voice.  "  Such  a  time  as  I  had  getting  off." 
He  began  to  tell  me  one  incident  of  the  day 
after  another  as  he  got  out  carefully,  and 
cautiously  lifted  from  the  vehicle's  foot  a 
loosely  tied  bag. 

"  You,  Dick ! "  he  greeted  the  boy,  as 
Dick  came  hurrying  out.  "  Hello,  wait  there 

a   moment!     What   must   I  do  with  them. 
10  I45 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

Lucy  ? "  looking  helplessly  down  at  the  bag 
he  held.  "  Had  I  better  let  him  carry  them 
to  the  barn  ?  Must  I  turn  them  loose  here  ? 
What  do  you  think  ? " 

He  stooped,  untied  the  string,  but  held 
the  mouth  of  the  bag  together  in  his  hands 
while  he  looked  at  me  perplexedly.  Before 
I  could  answer,  the  question  was  settled  for 
him.  With  one  mighty  squirm  and  spring, 
Tom  was  out.  He  stood  for  a  second,  tail 
erect  and  spread  big  as  a  fox's  brush,  the 
hair  standing  straight  on  his  back,  his  yellow 
eyes  bulging;  then,  with  a  hideous  yowl,  he 
sped  like  a  black  streak  straight  down  the 
road  to  the  barn.  The  others  sprang  after 
him,  knocking  father's  crutch  from  beneath 
his  arm  in  the  rush.  He  fell  back  against 
the  palings,  clutching  them  for  support; 
Dick  flung  himself  on  the  ground  rolling 
and  howling  with  delight. 

"  You  black  rascal !  You  black  rascal ! " 
spluttered  father. 

"  Which,  which  ?  "  I  cried.  "  Who  is  the 
black  rascal  ? " 

Father  was  too  offended  to  reply.  He 
146 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

looked  from  me,  holding  up  by  the  gate,  to 
Dick  rolling  over  on  the  ground,  then 
picked  up  his  crutch  and  hobbled  off  stable- 
wards.  But  I  caught  up  to  him,  ran  my 
arm  through  his,  and  faced  him  about. 
"  Let  them  alone,"  I  cried ;  "  they  won't  go 
away  farther  than  the  barn.  '  Let  them 
alone,'  I  droned,  'and  they'll  come  home, 
bringing  their  tails  behind  them.' "  I  could 
not  help  it,  and  I  think  father  forgave  the 
teasing. 

Our  home-coming  had  been  saved  its 
touch  of  tragedy,  and  next  morning  Tom 
with  the  other  cats  stood  in  line  before 
our  fireplace.  Whenever  Dick's  eyes  rolled 
so  that  he  could  see  them  —  which  was 
often  —  he  grinned  from  ear  to  ear. 


147 


XI 


WE  had  been  home  but  a  week  when 
we  heard  that  the  forts  at  Glouces- 
ter Point  and  Yorktown  were  oc- 
cupied ;  we  had  been  there  but  two  weeks 
when   we    heard    that    Bellevue   had   been 
raided. 

Father  may  have  known  what  to  expect 
from  the  fortunes  of  war.  Robert  must  have 
anticipated  them  when  he  warned  us  that 
Bellevue  was  too  conspicuous ;  but  to  me 
it  was  a  dreadful  and  monstrous  injustice 
that  our  corn-house  and  barn-loft,  smoke- 
house and  stable  had  been  swept  clean  ;  that 
the  hay-stacks  had  been  burned  in  the  fields  ; 
that  some  of  the  negroes  had  run  away,  some 
had  been  carried  off  to  work  at  the  fort,  and 
only  a  few  remained. 

Sam  was  amongst  those   carried    to   the 
fort.     He  was  one  of  Mammy's  six  children, 
of  whom   only  two  were  left,  the  youngest 
148 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

and  the  oldest ;  and  he  was  her  favorite. 
Dick  had  been  allowed  to  grow  much  as  he 
chose,  but  Sam,  lank-looking  and  half  sick 
always,  had  been  spoiled  and  humored  to 
confirmed  laziness. 

Mammy  had  listened  with  meanings  and 
mutterings,  and  yet  entire  resignation,  to 
the  tale  of  the  losses  at  Bellevue.  She  had 
even  seemed  to  derive  some  sort  of  agoniz- 
ing satisfaction  at  their  completeness;  but 
when  Sam  was  mentioned,  her  half-closed 
lids  flew  wide  open,  every  inch  of  her  great 
size  stiffened.  "  Sam  !  What  dat  you  say 
'bout  him?" 

When  she  took  it  in  she  plunged  for  the 
house ;  only  one  man  was  great  enough  to 
help  her  in  that  extremity.  "  Marse  Willum  !  " 
she  shrieked.  "  Marse  Willum  !  " 

With  dumb  lips  and  strained  eyes  "  Marse 
Willum  "  sat  before  the  empty  hearth  in  the 
chamber.  He  never  turned  his  head  at  the 
sound  of  Mammy's  heavy,  rushing  footsteps, 
nor  at  her  cry. 

"  Lawd !  Marse  Willum  ;    Lawd,  Lawd  1 " 
was  all  she  could  at  first  say. 
149 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

Father  made  an  impatient  movement  in 
his  chair. 

"  What  is  gwine  come  o'  us  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  father  snapped. 

"  Nuthin' !  Does  you  call  it  nuthin'  to  be 
took  up  an'  marched  off  an'  —  " 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  anyhow  ?  " 
Father  wheeled  so  that  he  could  see  Mammy 
where  she  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
wringing  her  hands,  the  tears  rolling  down 
her  smooth,  fat  cheeks. 

"  What  you  think  I  'm  talkin'  'bout  ?  "  in 
hot  indignation ;  "  I  'm  talkin'  'bout  Sam." 

Father  had  thought  her  lamentations  were 
for  Bellevue.  He  was  too  mad  to  sit  still. 
He  got  up,  fitted  his  crutch  under  his  arm. 
"  Sam  !  Sam  !  "  he  blazed. 

"  What  you  think  I  'm  talkin'  'bout  if  't  ain't 
my  own  chile  ?  Did  you  think  —  "  Sudden 
light  seemed  to  break  in  upon  her.  "  Marse 
Willum,  you  ain't  distressin'  o'  yo'se'f  'bout 
de  place  ?  Don't  you  sorrow  'bout  dat !  All 
dem  trials  an'  tribulations,  dey  is  in  de  han's 
o'  de  Lawd.  He  '11  mek  'em  all  work  to- 
geddah  fer  good  an'  fer  His  glory.  Yes, 

150 


sah,"  in  a  high  sing-song,  "jes  you  put  yo1 
trus'  in  Him,  an'  don't  you  fret." 

"  Fret,  you  old  numbskull,  you !  Take 
your  preaching  home  to  yourself;  you  are 
the  one  that 's  making  a  fuss.  Put  your 
trust  in  the  Lord,"  in  a  tone  of  the  most 
intense  sarcasm  ;  "  don't  you  fret ! "  father 
shouted. 

Mammy  listened  with  eyes  rolled  upwards, 
mouth  agape.  "  Dat  's  my  chile,"  she  said 
simply;  "  dat  's  dif'runt." 

"  Yes,"  father  snorted,  "  it  usually  is  differ- 
ent when  a  thing  is  yours,  touches  you." 

"  Marse  Willum,  don't  you  be  cantanker- 
ous," Mammy  begged,  as  she  fell  to  wringing 
her  hands  afresh.  "  Tell  me  what  you  'spose 
dey  's  gwine  do  wid  Sam." 

"  Hang  him." 

"  Oh,  my  Gawd,  my  Gawd  !  "  Mammy 
fell  down  on  the  floor  and  flung  her  apron 
over  her  head.  "  My  Gawd !  "  she  moaned,  as 
she  rocked  herself  to  and  fro; "  I  thought  so." 

Father  watched  her  for  a  moment,  then 
came  nearer  and  poked  at  her  with  his  crutch. 
"  Get  up.  Don't  make  a  fool  of  yourself. 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

You  know  better  than  that.  They  won't 
hang  him  unless  they  know  more  about  him 
than  I  do.  Lucy,  get  her  up;  make  her 
hush.  She  will  set  me  crazy." 

I  knelt  by  Mammy  and  put  my  arms  around 
her,  comforted  her  as  best  I  could ;  but  get 
up  she  would  not.  She  sat  still  on  the  floor, 
and  when  she  could  speak  she  began  once 
more  to  question.  "  You  says  you  knows 
dey  ain't  gwine  —  ain't  gwine  — "  she  choked 
over  the  dreadful  word. 

"No,  they  will  do  something  worse  — " 
My  hand  was  on  her  shoulder  and  I  felt  it 
quiver  and  shake,  but  she  sat  speechless. 
"They'll  put  him  to  work." 

"  Work  !  "  cried  Mammy  in  dismay.  "  Sam 
nebbah  did  do  no  work  in  all  his  bohn  days." 

"  He  will  do  it  now." 

"  De  onlies'  thing  in  the  worl'  he  knows 
how  to  do  is  to  hitch  a  boss  an'  wait  on  de 
table." 

"  Perhaps  that 's  what  they  want  him  for." 

Mammy  was  too  ignorant  of  camp  life  to 
understand  the  irony  of  that  suggestion  ;  and 
strangely  enough  she  was  comforted  by  it. 
152 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

She  stumbled  clumsily  to  her  feet  and  started 
to  leave  the  room.  At  the  door  she  paused 
with  her  hand  on  the  latch.  Her  black  face 
was  full  of  pity  and  sympathy,  now  that  her 
worst  fears  were  quelled. 

"  Don't  you  worry,  Marse  Willum,"  she 
soothed ;  "  jes  think  you  might  a'  been  dyar, 
you  an'  Miss  Lucy,"  —  she  seemed  to  think 
that  might  have  meant  any  fate,  — "  an' 
hyar  you  is  safe  an'  soun'.  De  Lawd,  He  '11 
tek  cyar  o'  His  own." 

"  Turn  Sam  over  to  Him,  then." 

"  I  done  dat  long  ergo,  sah,  de  very  day 
he  was  bohn."  She  closed  the  door  gently 
as  she  went  out. 

From  that  day  news  of  disasters  came  so 
fast  that  they  ran  together  in  a  blur  of  horror 
and  fear ;  news  from  the  army  of  sick  and 
wounded  and  dead;  news  from  the  country 
of  raids  and  losses  and  constant  terror ;  that 
Emily's  home  had  been  burned,  and  she 
and  her  mother  were  refugees  in  Middlesex. 
Emily's  mother  was  possessed  of  a  shrewish 
tongue  whose  stinging  properties  were  well 
known ;  she  would  not  restrain  it  even  before 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

a  hostile  soldiery,  and  in  revenge  for  the 
hard  thrusts  she  flung  at  them,  they  had 
made  her  homeless.  I  wrote  to  Emily  as 
soon  as  I  heard  it  and  begged  her  to  visit 
me ;  but  there  had  been  no  answer,  and  I 
feared  the  letter,  sent  from  hand  to  hand, 
had  never  reached  her. 

Mails  there  were  none.  Our  tidings  fil- 
tered through  somehow,  slowly,  surely  —  and 
sometimes  they  were  deadly.  When  the  few 
neighbors  met  they  looked  at  one  another 
with  tense  faces,  each  afraid  of  what  the 
other  might  know. 

But  whatever  was  known  of  battles  fought 
and  lost  or  won,  of  dead  or  wounded  or  miss- 
ing, drifted  first  to  the  centre  of  our  neigh- 
borhood —  The  Ordinary.  The  old  tavern 
which  had  given  to  the  cross-roads  its  name 
had  been  for  years  a  quiet  dwelling-place; 
below  it,  in  the  angle  of  the  road,  stood  the 
store  and  post-office,  with  the  wide  treadway 
of  a  cotton-gin,  long  disused,  gaping  through 
the  walls  of  a  tumbling  shack  not  far  behind 
it;  across  the  sandy  road  the  store-keeper 
made  his  home;  wide  fields  of  poor  soil 

154 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

stretched  opposite  him  ;  and  in  the  last  angle 
of  the  crossing  roads  stood  a  huge  chestnut, 
whose  mighty  branches  sheltered  the  patient 
beasts  while  their  masters  loitered  within 
the  store  or  on  the  benches  of  its  porch. 
For  the  people  still  gathered  there  for  tid- 
ings as  they  had  once  come  for  letters  and 
supplies ;  though  the  shelves  were  well-nigh 
empty  and  the  counters  barren,  the  store  was 
yet  a  meeting-place  for  those  too  old,  too 
young,  or  too  afflicted  to  be  marching  with 
the  regiments. 

When  we  heard  that  a  great  battle  had 
been  fought  we  went  for  days  with  hushed 
lips  and  quaking  hearts ;  who  might  be 
widowed  ?  who  childless  ?  We  besieged  The 
Ordinary  with  eager  questionings.  Then 
after  a  great  slaughter  a  list  of  dead  and 
wounded  sent  by  some  pitying  hand  was 
tacked  on  the  gray  trunk  of  the  old  tree. 
Those  branches  had  seen  Indian  warfare, 
tribe  against  tribe,  had  seen  the  scalping  of 
the  white  man,  and  heard  the  savage's  death- 
cry,  yet  never  had  they  seen  so  dire  a  picture 
as  that  of  which  that  paper  —  white  for  glad- 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

ness,  marked  black  as  if  for  death  —  told  the 
tale.  That  writing  saved  much  —  the  ques- 
tion it  choked  one  to  ask,  the  answer  the 
hearer  dreaded  to  speak.  Each  learned  his 
own  tidings  there;  after  that,  the  word  of 
gossip  and  cheer  or  mutual  forebodings,  or 
the  homeward  way. 

We  went  every  day,  Dick  or  I ;  but  often- 
est  the  duty  was  mine.  I  could  not  wait  at 
home  while  perhaps  a  tale  which  it  would 
break  my  heart  to  hear  was  whispered  under 
those  chestnut,  leaves.  What  others  knew, 
I  also  must  know.  So  for  many  a  day  I 
rode  out  along  the  road  carpeted  thick 
with  brown  pine-needles,  across  the  spark- 
ling stream  which  spread  into  a  flower- 
bedecked  swamp  between  low  hills,  up  the 
clayey  slope  beyond,  along  the  sandy  stretch 
—  the  horse  loping  her  fastest,  my  heart  beat- 
ing to  suffocation  —  we  were  almost  there. 
Then  slowly  back  again,  pausing  at  the 
brook  for  the  horse  to  dip  her  hot  muzzle  in 
the  clear  water,  and  blow  rippling  rings  of 
satisfaction  over  its  sparkling  surface  while 
I  sat  stilled  to  attunement  with  the  song  the 

156 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

stream  sang,  the  note  the  bird  trilled  from 
a  bush ;  for  my  heart  beat  "  Thank  God ! " 
There  had  been  no  writing  there  which 
blotted  out  my  sunshine. 

But  the  others  whom  I  saw  !  Once  when 
I  drew  rein  close  by  the  huge  trunk,  ran 
down  the  list  with  devouring  eyes,  when  my 
breath  came  easily  and  my  blood  ceased  its 
pounding,  I  sat  for  an  instant  with  my  un- 
seeing eyes  fixed  on  the  sandy  road  running 
straight  between  the  fields  ahead ;  I  became 
aware  of  a  woman  driving  straight  down  the 
way  as  anxiously  as  I  had  come.  The  wagon 
in  which  she  rode  was  old  and  rattling,  a 
paintless  Jersey  with  an  uncushioned  seat; 
the  woman  slid  and  jolted  upon  it  as  she 
leaned  forward  to  slash  the  horse  with  the 
ends  of  the  rope-reins.  I  knew  her.  I  drew 
my  horse  close  to  the  tree  and  waited,  so  she 
could  not  see ;  I  was  between  her  and  any 
writing  there. 

She  pushed  back  her  sun-bonnet  as  she 
reined  up  beside  me.  "  I  cyarnt  read,"  —  I 
had  not  thought  of  that,  — "  what 's  the 
names  thar  ?  " 

157 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  There  are  no  dead,"  I  breathed. 

"  What 's  thar  ?  "  It  was  a  command.  I 
recalled  even  then  her  humility  and  her 
shrinking  whenever  I  had  before  seen  her. 

"  They  are  the  wounded,  only  the  wounded." 

"What's  thar?" 

"A  battle  has  been  fought  near  Rich- 
mond, and  the  wounded  have  been  taken 
into  the  city,  I  know ;  they  always  are. 
There  are  hospitals,  nurses,  everything."  I 
rattled  it  breathlessly.  The  few  loungers  on 
the  porch  eyed  us  curiously,  and  I  dreaded 
lest  one  might  cross  to  us.  "  Every  woman 
there  is  a  nurse,  everything  that  can  be  done 
for  a  man  is  done." 

"Quit  foolin'!"  The  old  eyes  flashed. 
"  Read  me  the  names." 

"  Henry  Grimes ! 

"Joe  West! 

"Luke  Groom!  —  " 

The  reins  fell  from  her  old  hands,  she 
slid  from  her  seat,  her  bonnet  tilted  over  her 
face,  —  it  was  her  son. 

I  rode  home  in  an  agony  of  sympathy 
and  fear.  I  sprang  from  the  saddle  and 
158 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

rushed  up  the  path  into  the  hall  where 
father  sat  too  frightened  for  the  second  to 
move.  "  Is  Robert  dead  ?  "  he  gasped. 

"  No !  no  !  "  I  cried.  "  But  who  knows 
when  he  may  be;  that  he  is  not  now,  and 
we  have  not  even  heard  it  ?  " 

I  wrung  my  hands  and  stumbled  over  my 
long  riding-skirt  as  I  walked  up  and  down 
the  hall. 

"  Sit  down !  What  is  the  matter?  "  Father 
brought  down  his  chair  from  its  tilting 
against  the  wall,  and  his  face  was  still  the 
hue  of  the  whitewash  behind  him. 

"  I  cannot  stand  it,  I  cannot !  "  The  cry 
had  been  in  my  heart  since  that  day  when 
first  the  booming  of  the  gunboats'  cannon 
had  sounded. 

"  Sit  down ! "  father  repeated  so  imperi- 
ously that  I  flung  myself  into  the  low  flag 
chair  near  the  door. 

"  Father,"  I  cried  abruptly,  "  teach  me  to 
pray." 

"  To  pray ! "  He  could  but  repeat  it  as 
he  looked  at  me  in  bewilderment.  The 
furrow  of  anxiety  deepened  between  his 
159 


CALLED   TO   THE    FIELD 

brows.  He  could  not  know  that  I  had  at 
last  blurted  out  the  ferment  of  a  spirit  which 
would  be  no  longer  controlled. 

"  I  must  know  —  to  pray  for  Robert." 

"  Have  you  not  done  so  ? "  with  stern 
horror. 

"As  I  could,  as  I  know  how!  There 
must  be  more.  There  must  be  comfort, 
peace,  strength.  I  have  begged,  besought 
—  what  is  it?" 

"  Your  mother  taught  you  —  " 

"  A  prayer  for  my  own  safety,  for  God's 
care  as  I  slept.  It  is  not  in  sleep  alone  that 
I  wish  to  be  guarded.  I  am  awake,  alive. 
How  am  I  to  live  —  with  Robert  —  " 

Father's  blue  eyes  flashed.  "  Live !  Doing 
your  duty ! " 

"What  is  it?" 

"  It 's  not  that,"  pointing  to  me  where  I 
sat  huddled  in  the  chair.  "  I  told  you  before 
there  are  no  cowards  —  " 

"  I  am  no  coward ! "  Again  I  vowed  it. 
In  tension  too  strong  for  speech  we  sat 
looking  at  one  another's  faces.  Father's 
stern  expression  changed  in  an  instant. 

160 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  My  child ! "  he  cried  softly,  pityingly ; 
then  after  another  silence,  "  Teach  you  to 
pray?  I  don't  know  how." 

He  lifted  his  hands  and  stopped  me  as 
I  started  to  speak.  "  There  are  two  kinds 
of  prayer,  two  kinds  of  men ;  I  have  never 
been  the  praying  sort.  I  have  done  the 
best  I  could.  I  have  prayed  with  my  hands 
and  my  brain,  if  I  have  prayed  at  all.  The 
rest  I  have  left  with  the  Almighty.  He 
gave  the  duties;  I  fulfilled  them.  The 
result  is  in  His  hands." 

That  creed  might  suffice  for  a  strong,  full 
life,  but  mine  was  empty.  I  must  leave  all 
to  that  Deity  who  rules  the  universe;  I  must 
do  it  perforce ;  but  I  must  learn  to  do  it  in 
that  way  which  lays  an  agony  down  and  takes 
up  life,  else  my  own  were  broken  forever  and 
irretrievably.  How  could  it  be  done  ? 

"  Did  you  ever  feel  there  was  something 
you  must  have,  beg  for,  beseech  ?  " 

"  No,  all  I  ever  could  have  in  this  life  I 
had  —  till  Lucy  died.  I  knew  there  was 
nothing  on  earth  could  satisfy  that  want.  I 
must  endure  it." 

ii  161 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

His  face  was  as  drawn  as  mine  must  have 
been  as  he  stared  past  me.  "  Lucy,"  he 
said,  after  a  second  of  miserable  silence,  "  I 
have  never  told  you  of  your  mother,  how 
she  died." 

"  I  know,"  I  cried  quickly. 

"  From  the  servants,  from  others ;  but  I 
have  never  told  you.  She  was  the  loveliest 
woman  I  ever  saw,  the  sweetest;  I  thank 
God  now  that  she  was  my  wife.  Sometimes 
even  yet  I  can  see  her  when  I  wake  sud- 
denly in  the  night,  in  the  morning,  before 
consciousness  comes  to  me  -  Well !  you 
remember  how  frail  she  looked,  slender? 
There  is  nothing  she  looked  like,  no  one. 
God  only  knows  how  I  loved  her  —  how  I 
love  her. 

"  There  was  just  one  thing  we  disagreed 
about.  She  was  afraid  of  horses.  The  one 
I  gave  her,  the  only  one  she  would  have  — 
I  would  as  soon  have  driven  a  cow.  And 
mine !  She  would  never  say  a  word  when 
she  got  in  the  buggy  with  me,  nor  clutch 
at  me,  no  matter  how  scared  she  was,  she 
knew  how  I  hated  it ;  but  her  cheek  would 

162 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

turn  white,  and  sometimes  when  I  had  lifted 
her  down  from  the  carriage  I  saw  her  little 
hand  red,  a  furrow  pressed  deep  into  her 
palm  where  she  had  held  on  to  the  side 
nearest  her.  I  used  to  laugh  and  tease 
her.  I  thought  it  the  best  way,  and  that 
she  would  overcome  her  tearfulness. 

"  Those  horses  she  was  most  afraid  of,  — 
those  bays;  they  had  been  bred  on  the 
place;  I  had  broken  them  myself.  They 
could  n't  be  matched  in  that  county,  nor  the 
next.  I  had  to  drive  out  to  the  store  one 
night,  and  I  wanted  to  take  her  with  me. 
It  was  warm,  moonlight ;  a  beautiful  night. 
I  can  see  just  how  she  looked  when  I  asked 
her  to  go.  She  did  n't  want  to  say  no,  but 
she  was  afraid.  She  looked  at  me,  and  then 
out  at  that  pair  pawing  by  the  gate ;  but  she 
picked  up  her  little  white  shawl  and  threw  it 
around  her  shoulders.  Her  dress  was  white, 
too,  and  low;  and  her  neck  — 

"  God  !  it  is  enough  to  live  sometimes.  It 
was  enough  then.  It  was  June.  The  grape 
blossoms  and  chestnut  blooms  were  out;  the 
woods  were  full  of  the  smell  of  them.  We 

163 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

drove  out,  turned  back  again ;  it  was  glori- 
ous. I  let  the  horses  out  and  they  spanked 
it;  the  buggy  cutting  along  as  smooth  as  a 
rocking-chair  till  we  got  to  the  corduroy  road. 
That  fretted  them.  I  had  to  keep  them  to  a 
walk,  and  they  were  wild  to  go.  When  we 
struck  the  lane  they  were  off  like  the  wind, 
heads  down  and  tugging  at  the  reins.  I 
laughed  at  them,  but  Lucy  clung  to  me.  She 
had  never  done  it  before.  Then  out  of  the 
fence  corner  stumbled  a  stupid  calf.  They 
were  off.  I  pulled  and  sawed,  but  could  not 
stop  them.  We  were  nearly  at  the  gate. 
'  Thank  God,'  I  said  to  myself,  '  the  gate  is 
open.'  I  had  told  Sam  to  open  it  and  leave  it 
so.  Some  fool  had  shut  it.  I  could  n't  see, 
the  tree  shaded  it  so,  till  we  were  right  against 
it ;  and  they  —  they  leaped  to  jump  it !  " 

He  got  up,  walked  up  and  down,  his  crutch 
ringing  on  the  bare  floor.  "  Her  head  struck 
the  root  of  the  big  walnut,"  he  added  simply. 

There  was  never  a  word  of  himself,  his 
broken  leg,  his  agony  of  mind  and  body. 
He  had  spoken  truly  —  there  were  no  cow- 
ards in  our  race. 

164 


XII 

THE  rest  of  that  story  I  had  heard 
from  'Zekiel ;  he  had  told  it  to  me 
many  times. 

"An'  thar  Marse  Willum  he  was  tied  to 
de  chair ;  did  n't  nobody  know  if  he  ebbah 
would  walk  no  mo';  and  Miss  Lucy  daid; 
an'  you  a-trottin'  'bout  de  house  cryin'  fer 
yo'  ma.  Lan' !  but  we  had  a  time  dem  days ! 
de  niggahs  dey  would  n't  'tend  to  nuthin' 
nohow,  an'  eberyt'ing  seem  lak  it  goin'  to 
rack  an'  ruin  spipindicular.  I  done  tole 
Marse  Willum  'bout  it,  I  done  tole  him ;  an' 
he  sigh  an  tuhn  erroun'  in  his  chair  lak  he 
ain't  gwine  notice  nuthin'  nebber  no  mo'  in 
dis  worl'.  Den  I  ups  an'  speaks  to  him  one 
day  sho  'nuff.  '  Marse  Willum,'  I  says, '  Miss 
Lucy  she  's  done  daid  an'  she  lef '  you  her 
chile  to  pervide  fer;  an'  if  you  don't  look 
mighty  sharper  dan  you's  doin'  now  you's 
gwine  come  out  lackin'.  Ain't  nuthin'  gwine 

165 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

right  on  dis  place;  de  niggahs  look  lak  dey's 
clean  'stracted ;  de  craps  ain't  gwine  ermount 
to  a  row  o'  pins;  dyar  ain't  gwine  be  corn 
ernuff  to  feed  de  niggahs  wid,  much  less  de 
hosses  an'  de  cows.' 

" '  What 's  dat  ? '  he  say,  sharp  lak. 

" '  Dat  it  ain't,'  I  'sponded,  '  an'  de  wheat 
was  plum  ruined  in  de  harves',  an' '  — 

" '  Sen'  Charles  hyar.' 

"  Lawd  knows  I  did  n't  know  what  he  was 
'bout,  but  I  seed  he  was  roused  up,  an'  I 
went  erlong.  By  and  by  Charles  he  came 
runnin'  out  de  house  an'  he  fell  to  workin'  in 
de  cyarpenter's  shop  lak  he  was  nigh  'pon 
gone  crazy ;  an'  I  go  'long.  '  Praise  Gawd, 
Marse  Willum  is  awakin'  up,'  says  I.  But 
de  Lawd  knows  I  nebbah  hoped  to  see  what 
I  did.  De  very  nex'  day  Marse  Willum  come 
hobblin'  to  de  barn  on  de  crutch  Charles 
done  made.  I  was  busy  dyar  cleanin'  out 
de  stables,  an'  when  I  looks  up  an'  sees  him 
standin'  right  befo'  me  de  pitchfork  drap 
right  out  o'  my  han'.  '  Lawd,'  says  I,  *  my 
time  done  come ! '  'case  I  thought  't  was  a 
sperrit,  you  see.  An'  den  he  say  —  de  very 

166 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

fus'  word  he  say  is,  '  Whar  is  dat  roan  colt  ? ' 
An'  I  say  wid  my  knees  a-shakin'  lak  dey 
gwine  knock  tergedder  spite  o'  all  I  could 
do,  'Jo  got  him,  sah.' 

"  '  What  in  thunder  is  he  doing  with  him  ? ' 

"  I  stood  up  straight  den,  an'  my  knees 
stiffened  up  good  under  me.  'T  warnt  no 
ghos'  gwine  swear  lak  Marse  Willum  swear 
when  I  tell  him  Jo 's  tryin'  to  break  dat  colt 
down  in  de  fiel'. 

"  *  Tell  him  to  come  hyar.' 

"  I  tell  you,  sah,  I  went. 

"  Jo  he  was  off  dat  colt's  neck  in  de  shake 
o'  a  daid  sheep's  tail,  an'  he  was  glad  ernuff 
to  come  off,  too,  for  it  sho  was  hard  to  stick 
on ;  he  come  a-runnin'  'long  up  wid  de  halter 
in  his  han'  an'  de  colt  cavortin'  an'  pawin' 
after  him,  yukkin'  de  halter  nigh  'pon  out 
Jo's  han's. 

" '  You  idjit ! '  Marse  Willum  shouted  out, 
'  bring  him  here.' 

"  Den  I  seed  what  Marse  Willum  was 
after.  I  tried  to  say  sumpin',  but  my  tongue 
jes  dried  up  in  my  mouf  I  was  so  scared,  an' 
little  red  an'  black  things  got  a-dancin'  befo' 

167 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

my  eyes.  When  I  could  see  good  an'  clear 
dyar  was  Marse  Willum  on  dat  colt,  an'  dat 
colt  was  a-cavortin'  an'  a-pawin'  up  de  earth ; 
but  Marse  Willum  he  set  good  an'  straight 
an'  tight  as  ebbah.  '  Glory  Hallelujah  ! '  says 
I.  '  Glory  Hallelujah  ! '  I  says  it  ergin  when 
he  come  ridin'  dat  colt  down  de  fiel'  jes  as 
easy  an'  peaceable!  He  sort  o'  laughed 
when  he  heard  me  shout  out,  an'  he  pull  de 
colt  up  on  de  uddah  side  of  de  fence  whar  I 
was  a-leanin'.  His  cheek  is  all  done  flushed 
up  an'  his  eyes  bright,  but  de  win'  done  blow 
his  hat  off  back  dyar  in  de  fiel',  an'  his  hair 
done  blow  back  on  his  haid,  an'  I  seed  dat 
undah  de  topmos'  locks  it 's  all  tuhn  white. 

"  Marse  Willum  he  draw  a  long  breath. 
'  Gimme  my  crutch,'  he  says.  An'  I  picked 
it  up  from  whar  it  done  drap  when  he  clum 
on  dat  colt's  back  somehow ;  I  picked  it  up 
an'  han's  it  to  him  an'  holp  him  down. 

" '  Marse  Willum  done  come  back  to  hise'f,' 
I  say  dat  day  mo'  dan  once,  '  but  he 's  had  a 
huht  he  '11  nebbah  git  ober.  Dyar 's  a  huht 
in  his  body  an'  a  huht  in  his  heart,  an'  neider 
will  nebbah  be  mended.' " 

168 


XIII 

THERE  is  an  uplift  to  any  life  when 
it  touches  a  brave  one.  Those  who 
have  suffered  and  overcome,  who 
have  found  that  sorrow  means  the  extinc- 
tion neither  of  life  nor  of  happiness,  should 
not  hide  forever  their  knowledge  behind 
locked  lips.  An  hour  will  come  when  an- 
other's eyes  will  need  to  see  the  shine  of 
that  gold  which  sorrow  has  purified.  Father 
had  divined  that  that  hour  had  come  to  me, 
and  he  had  shown  me  his  agony.  I  knew 
how  he  had  borne  it.  If  he  could  not  teach 
me  prayer,  he  could  teach  me  life. 

I  went  back  over  his  story  piecing  it  with 
'Zekiel's,  and  saw,  at  last,  with  a  woman's 
understanding,  the  tale  which  had  fascinated 
my  childhood.  I  was  up  in  my  attic  room 
then,  —  the  chamber  had  been  given  up  to 
father,  —  I  had  slipped  into  a  cool  dress,  and 
as  I  sat  down  by  the  narrow  window,  my 

169 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

Bible  on  the  mantel-shelf  was  just  above  my 
hand.  I  reached  up  for  it,  turned  its  leaves 
slowly  upon  my  knee,  well-known  words 
and  phrases  flashing  up  to  sight.  I  had  a 
strange  feeling,  both  of  knowing  it  all  and 
knowing  nothing.  Were  it  history,  tales  of 
heroes,  of  journeyings,  of  law-giving?  then  I 
knew  it.  Were  it  the  birth  of  Christ,  His 
miracles,  His  death,  the  letters  of  His  apos- 
tles ?  still  it  was  familiar. 

But  were  these  the  surface  only,  was  there 
through  all  these  pages  an  essence,  a  divinity 
of  spirit,  showing  through  all  ages,  climax- 
ing in  God's  son,  coming  close  to  us  as  it  had 
to  Christ,  giving  us  light  and  love  to  live  by 
as  it  had  given  Him  ?  then  I  knew  nothing. 
I  had  but  guessed  by  glimmerings. 

I  had  never  been  devout.  I  had  sat  for 
many  a  Sabbath  in  the  old  church  while  the 
preacher's  words  drifted  over  my  head ;  and 
if  I  had  felt  attuned  to  worship  by  the  quiet- 
ude, by  the  monotonous  voice  sounding  from 
the  pulpit,  it  was  not  to  give  homage  to  that 
Deity  the  preacher  pictured,  but  He  whose 
handiwork  of  green  grass  and  hoary  trees 

170 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

and    blue    skies   shone    through    the   dusty 
windows. 

How  close  He  seemed  to  some  !  how  far- 
off  to  me!  How  devoutly  Mammy  and 
those  of  her  kind  worshipped  Him !  But 
their  God  was  a  fiery  and  wrathful  King. 
The  God  of  my  father  was  a  benignant  Deity. 
Their  cold  abstractions  would  not  serve  for 
me  :  I  was  too  vitally  alive.  The  tale  I  had 
vaguely  and  dreamily  read  in  the  rhythmic 
pulse  of  nature,  in  the  laws  of  my  own  being, 
pointed  to  a  brotherhood  unfathomable,  a 
fatherhood  unlimitable ;  and  suddenly  my 
half-formed  surmisings  had  been  rent  like  a 
rotten  fabric.  I  must  know. 

For  that  hour  and  many  another  I  sat 
there  questioning,  reading,  praying,  —  learn- 
ing. The  swallows  whirled  in  wide  circles, 
their  graceful  flight  etching  dark  curves 
against  the  evening  sky,  the  chimney  cast  a 
breadth  of  shadow  across  the  grass.  Green 
grass,  twittering  birds,  the  sunset  sky !  God 
wrote  once  upon  a  household  wall  for  one 
man's  warning;  He  writes  forever  anew, 
before  all  men's  eyes,  a  tale  of  love. 

171 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

But  I  was  set  first  to  learn  father's  creed 
of  work.  He  declared  that  he  must  go  next 
morning  to  Bellevue.  I  urged  the  dangers, 
but  he  would  not  listen.  He  must  see  what 
damage  had  been  done,  do  what  he  could  to 
straighten  affairs,  and  look  after  the  comfort 
of  those  left.  By  sunrise  he  was  gone. 

It  was  a  day  of  heavenly  quiet.  The  crisp 
autumn  air  stirred  one's  blood,  the  sunshine 
lay  warm  on  fields  that  had  been  already 
harvested.  'Zekiel  in  the  ox-cart  was  haul- 
ing fodder  to  the  barn ;  his  "  haws  "  and  cries, 
the  crackings  of  his  whip,  were  the  only 
sounds  except  the  low  duckings  of  the 
fowls  or  Mammy's  footsteps  and  my  own. 
But  despite  the  day,  its  calm,  its  brightness, 
I  was  uneasy.  It  was  the  first  day  father 
had  left  me.  Busied  as  I  kept  myself,  I  felt 
a  tingle  of  fear,  due  perhaps  to  father's  ab- 
sence and  the  cause  of  it;  and  at  noon  I 
could  endure  it  no  longer.  I  must  know  if 
there  were  any  news,  so  I  sent  Dick  along 
the  path  through  the  woods  to  The  Ordinary, 
and,  strive  as  I  might  against  it,  I  kept  an 
anxious  watch  across  the  fields.  Still  I  did 
172 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

not  see  Dick,  nor  hear  him,  till  he  stumbled 
across  the  doorstep  and  cried  my  name. 

I  ran  down  from  my  room  and  Mammy 
came  racing  from  the  kitchen.  "  What  in 
the  world  is  the  matter  ? " 

"  De  sojers,  de  sojers !  " 

"  What  in  de  name  o'  Gawd  is  you  aftah 
anyhow  ? " 

"  De  sojers  !  Dey  's  at  de  On'ry,  dey  's 
comin'  hyar ! " 

"  The  idea ! "  I  never  feared  it  for  a  mo- 
ment ;  I  did  not  believe  it  even  then.  We 
were  too  far  back  in  the  woods,  the  forest 
shut  us  in  too  completely.  We  thought 
ourselves  entirely  secure. 

"  'Clare  'fo'  Gawd,"  Dick  insisted,  the  tears 
rolling  down  his  cheeks;  "dey's  a-comin' 
straight  hyar." 

"  How  you  know  ?  "  demanded  Mammy. 

"  Dey 's  done  smash  up  eberything  lef  at 
de  stoah,  an'  dey 's  swarmin'  lak  bees."  Dick 
sat  panting  on  the  doorstep ;  his  words  grew 
with  his  returning  breath. 

"  I  seed  'em.  I  was  'bleeged  to  watch  'em. 
I  lean  ergainst  de  fence  cornder  whar  de  path 
173 


CALLED    TO    THE   FIELD 

come  'long  by  Marse  Tom's  gyarden  — " 
"  Marse  Tom  "  was  the  store-keeper,  a  man  too 
old  for  active  service.  "  Dey  was  a-swearin' 
an'  a-laughin' ;  an'  one  man  he  was  jes  a-strut- 
tin'  up  an'  down  wid  a  piece  o'  yaller  caliker 
hangin'  down  his  back,  an'  pigeon-toein'  jes 
lak  he  say,  *  Step  light,  ladies ! '  an'  ebery- 
thing  dat  was  lef  o'  Marse  Tom's  stoah 
a-burnin'  in  de  road.  Marse  Tom  he  sat 
dyar  in  de  house,  in  de  hall,  his  haid  in  his 
han's.  Bimeby  he  raise  up  an'  look  out,  an' 
he  seed  me  scrunched  up  in  de  fence  cornder, 
an'  he  do  so." 

Dick  sat  up  straight  and  awed ;  he  beck- 
oned solemnly  with  his  forefinger. 

"  When  I  done  come  up  to  de  do'  he  say, 
1  Whar  's  yo'  Marse  Willum  ? '  an'  I  done  tole 
him.  Den  he  groan  an'  shake  his  haid. 
'You  put  out  fer  home,'  he  say,  'an'  don't 
you  walk  nary  step  o'  de  way,  but  run  lak  de 
Ole  Scratch  was  a-jumpin'  behin'  you.  Tell 
Miss  Lucy  dey  's  comin'  dyar  nexV  " 

"  My  Gawd ! "  moaned  Mammy. 

"  Hush  ! "  I  commanded  impatiently,  "  you 
know  they  won't  bother  us." 

174 


CALLED   TO    THE    FIELD 

"  Marse  Tom  say  you  run  an'  hide  ebery 
las'  thing  you  got,  or  you  nebbah  will  lay  eyes 
on  it  ergin.  He  say  dey  's  suttenly  comin'. 
He  say  dey 's  gwine  in  ebery  las'  gate  on  de 
road." 

I  waited  for  no  more.  I  fled  toward  the 
barn,  where  I  found  'Zekiel  standing  on  a 
load  of  fodder  pitching  it  up  into  the  loft. 
"  The  soldiers  are  coming ! "  I  cried,  "  run 
the  horses  off  into  the  woods ;  hide  them 
anywhere."  He  was  loosening  the  oxen  be- 
fore I  finished ;  in  one  instant  he  was  astride 
of  the  horse  we  had  kept  up  in  the  stall  and 
was  driving  off  the  cattle  before  him.  I  ran 
back  to  the  house.  "  Whar  is  de  res'  o'  de 
silvah  ?  Git  yo'  dresses !  "  Mammy  rushed 
through  the  rooms  gathering  up  all  arms 
and  apron  could  hold.  "  Git  yo'  clo'es,  Miss 
Lucy;  does  you  want  to  go  naked  de  res' 
o'  dis  wintah  ?  Honey,  why  don't  you  do 
something?  " 

I  could  not  believe  those  preparations 
necessary,  and  lent  little  aid. 

"  Ise  got  yo'  plaid  silk  an'  yo'  flowered 
dimity.  Come  'long,  Dick." 

175 


CALLED    TO    THE   FIELD 

In  five  minutes  she  was  back  again. 
"  Gimme  some  mo'  things.  Lan' !  't  is  too 
late  !  Dick,  go  hide  yo'se'f  somewhars  quick ! 
Dey's  done  got  one  chile,  dey  ain't  gwine 
cotch  anudder.  Lawd !  what  is  we  gwine 
do  ?  Run  upstairs,  Miss  Lucy,  quick  !  " 

I  stood  immovable  and  resolute.  I  was 
ready  to  meet  them  with  perfect  dignity  at 
my  own  fireside. 

"  You  hear  me !  "  She  caught  hold  of 
my  shoulders  from  behind,  pushing  me  for- 
ward. "  I  done  promised  Marse  Robert  Ise 
gwine  tek  cyar  o'  you,  an'  Ise  gwine  do  it." 
She  had  pushed  me  to  the  front  of  the  stairs 
while  the  blue-coats  raced  down  the  lane. 
Then  she  begged :  "  Go  'long,  chile,  dyar 
ain't  nobody  hyar  but  you  an'  one  po' 
niggah." 

I  yielded.  As  I  put  my  foot  on  the  stair 
the  first  soldier  swung  himself  from  his  horse 
outside  the  gate.  "  Shut  de  do',  an'  pull  de 
latchstring  inside,"  cried  Mammy  ;  and  then 
all  the  sounds  of  pandemonium  broke  out 
within  and  without  our  little  home. 

"  Not  one  step ! "  I  heard  Mammy's  voice 
176 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

ring  out  above  the  din  ;  "  you  ain't  gwine  up 
dem  stairs  nary  step.  Take  yo'se'f  'long  off!" 

"  Go  along,  old  woman  !  What  you  got 
up  there  ?  "  and  then  a  boisterous  laugh. 

"  Nuthin'  but  one  po'  lone  white  'oman." 

"  We  want  to  see  her." 

"  You  done  done  mischief  ernuff  fer  one 
time,"  Mammy  accused. 

The  men  roared.  "  What  's  your  name 
anyhow  ?  "  one  of  them  chaffed. 

"  Maria  Yancey." 

"  I  vow  !     Is  n't  that  the  name  ?  "  he  called. 

"  That  's  it,"  came  the  loud  answer.  "  Have 
you  got  a  son  named  Sam  ?  " 

"  Dat  I  is,  lessen  you  —  " 

"  He  's  sick." 

"Whar?" 

"  At  the  fort." 

"  What  you  done  done  to  him  ?  " 

"  Better  say  what  's  he  done  to  us  ;  "  a 
shout  of  laughter  rolled  through  the  hall  and 
echoed  up  the  stair. 

"What's  he  done?"  demanded  Mammy* 
belligerently. 

"  He  's  cook,"  said  one,  in  a  dry  tone. 


12 


CALLED    TO    THE   FIELD 

"  Humph!  "  Mammy  grunted,  "  he  could  n't 
cook  a  hoecake." 

"We're  learning  him."  Again  the  roar 
of  laughter. 

"  Don't  you  do  nuthin'  to  my  boy  Sam." 

"  All  we  are  doing  now,"  said  a  sober 
voice,  "  is  to  give  him  some  medicine.  Get 
out  of  the  way." 

I  stood  behind  the  closed  door.  From 
the  very  first  my  blood  had  boiled  at  the 
idea  of  shutting  myself  in  there  and  leaving 
Mammy  to  face  them  alone.  I  had  my 
fingers  on  the  latch  when  some  one  pushed 
her  aside,  and  a  heavy  step  bounded  by  her. 
Mammy  ran  after  the  intruder,  passed  him, 
flung  herself  against  my  door,  the  boards 
groaning  and  trembling  as  she  leaned  her 
weight  against  them. 

I  stood  on  the  other  side,  my  cheeks  hot, 
my  hands  clenched  at  my  side,  feeling  a 
coward  through  and  through.  Then  I 
heard  a  cry,  an  oath  ;  and  from  the  exclama- 
tions that  followed  them,  I  knew  that  the 
flag,  so  carefully  hidden,  had  been  found.  At 
the  thought  every  fear  fled.  I  was  icy  from 

178 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

head  to  foot,  but  I  felt  clad  with  immunity. 
I  flung  open  the  door,  pushed  Mammy  aside, 
and  stood  squarely  in  the  path  of  light  the 
window  behind  me  threw  in  the  passage. 
The  men  bent  over  the  plunder  looked  up, 
rose  to  their  feet ;  and  a  soldier  running  up 
the  stair  stood  pressed  against  the  wall.  So 
we  gazed  at  one  another. 

"  Where  is  your  officer?  "  I  demanded  of 
the  man  who  held  the  trailing  bunting. 

«  In  the  hall." 

"  Take  that  to  him."  I  turned  to  go  down 
the  stair,  but  Mammy  caught  at  my  dress. 
"  Miss  Lucy,  Miss  Lucy  !  "  she  begged. 

I  loosened  her  clutch  without  looking  at 
her.  "  Let  me  pass  !  "  I  commanded  both 
her  and  the  soldier  on  the  stair ;  and  I  went 
down,  my  skirts  swishing  against  his  knees, 
as  calmly  as  if  it  had  been  a  summer's  Sab- 
bath and  I  walked  up  the  aisle  of  the  old 
church. 

In  the  hall  I  came  face  to  face  with  the 
officer,  who  had  just  arrived.  He  doffed  his 
cap ;  I  looked  at  him  steadily.  "  Are  you 
the  officer  in  command  ?  " 

179 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  I  am." 

As  he  spoke  the  men  came  up  behind  me, 
spread  the  gay  flag  upon  the  floor;  stars  and 
stripes  and  bright  background  flaunted  up 
from  the  bare  pine-boards. 

"  And  you  have  permitted  this  ? "  I 
glanced  to  neither  right  nor  left,  but  I  knew, 
and  so  did  he,  that  the  chamber  floor  was 
strewn  with  garments  rifled  from  bureau  and 
closet ;  that  an  acrid  smell  of  burning  wool 
and  cotton  thrown  upon  the  fire  filled  the 
house ;  that  the  door  of  the  china  press, 
found  locked,  sagged  on  its  wrenched  hinges, 
and  broken  china  strewed  the  floor. 

"  I  have  just  come,"  said  the  officer,  angrily. 
"  I  —  "  He  broke  off  as  if  he  disdained  to 
defend  himself.  "  Where  did  you  find  this  ?  " 
he  demanded  of  the  men  with  haughty 
emphasis. 

I  gave  them  no  chance  to  reply.  "  In  my 
attic,  safely  hidden  from  —  "  I  paused  to 
give  the  word  emphasis  —  "  disgrace."  I 
stopped  him  before  he  could  speak.  "  I 
saved  it  from  trampling  footsteps.  My  grand- 
father fought  for  it,  my  great-grandfather. 

180 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

I  could  not  see  —  I  thought  to  see  it  under- 
foot would  be  a  disgrace.  I  was  mistaken. 
It  is  this." 

The  man's  glance  followed  mine  from 
rifled  room  to  rifled  room,  out  to  our  wagon 
loaded  with  corn  from  our  crib,  a  slaughtered 
cow  a-top  of  it  with  legs  pointing  ghastly 
upward. 

"  We  are  compelled  to  find  provisions,"  he 
said  shortly. 

"  By  robbing  helpless  women  ?  " 

"  Madam,"  said  the  man,  stung  beyond 
endurance,  "  you  say  you  love  that  flag,  own 
allegiance  to  it  —  " 

"  My  husband  fights  beneath  another." 

His  eyes  flashed.  "  Roll  it  up,  put  it  on 
the  wagon,"  he  commanded. 

"  Yes,  take  it,"  said  I,  speaking  low  and 
intensely ;  "  I  can  no  longer  protect  it." 

If  looks  could  have  killed,  I  should  have 
fallen  then.  "Madam,"  —  the  man  could 
scarcely  speak,  he  was  so  choked  with 
anger,  — "  madam,  we  will  have  our  flag, 
but  nothing  else  belonging  to  you." 

"  No  ?  " 

181 


CALLED    TO    THE   FIELD 

"  Nothing  which  we  cannot  claim  right- 
fully." He  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets, 
and  drew  out  a  wallet  filled  with  gold.  I 
stood  watching  him,  his  keen  glances  of  es- 
timation, his  counting.  "  This  is  full  value." 
He  held  out  the  money  toward  me.  I 
stood  chin  in  air,  hands  clasped  behind  me. 
Mammy  nudged  me,  —  she  had  stolen  close 
up  beside  me,  —  and  the  man  looked  from 
me  to  her,  put  down  the  gold  on  the  bench 
of  the  spinning-wheel,  and  strode  away. 

Mammy  grabbed  at  it ;  I  waved  her  away, 
took  it  in  my  hand,  walked  to  the  door  where 
stood  a  group  of  wondering  men  watching 
first  me  and  then  the  officer,  who  had  reached 
the  wagon  and  was  inspecting  it.  His  back 
was  toward  us.  From  the  doorstep  I  flung 
the  gold  abroad  as  I  would  have  scattered 
corn  to  hungry  fowls.  There  was  quick  and 
hasty  ducking,  some  knocking  of  heads  ;  but 
when  the  officer  turned  I  stood  disdainful  at 
the  door,  the  men  were  gone,  Mammy  stood 
by  my  side.  "  Chile,  chile,"  she  besought, 
"'t  ain't  no  use  to  stan'  hyar;  dat  man's 
fairly  a-bilin  ober  now ;  you  need  n't  say  no 

182 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

mo'.     Come  'long  ! "     I  went  slowly  into  the 
chamber. 

The  officer  found  me  there;  his  quick 
glance  had  shown  him  that  the  money  was 
gone,  and  he  doubtless  thought  me  appeased. 

"  Is  there  anything  more  I  can  do  for 
you  ?  " 

I  smiled  at  the  "more."  "No,"  I  an- 
swered curtly.  I  was  cold  and  shivering; 
already  the  reaction  had  begun. 

"  Miss  Lucy,"  begged  Mammy,  in  a  whis- 
per, "  I  wants  to  see  my  boy." 

"  This  woman,"  said  I  then,  "  wants  to  see 
her  son,  Sam  Yancey.  He  is  at  the  fort." 

"  I  know;  sick." 

"  Sam  allus  was  a  sickly  chile ;  he  don't 
know  nuthin'  'tall  'bout  wuk." 

"  So  we  have  found,"  —  gravely. 

"  His  spells  is  ter'ble  bad." 

"  This  one  is." 

"  Seem  lak  he  '11  die  sometimes,"  quavered 
Mammy,  "  lessen  somebody 's  right  dyar  dat 
knows  what  to  do  fer  him." 

"  He  asked  if  we  could  get  you  a  message. 
He  wants  you  to  come  to  see  him." 

183 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  At  dat  place !  "  Mammy  shrank  back. 

The  officer  glared.  "  Do  you  want  to 
come  ?  " 

"  Ef  Miss  Lucy  will  come  wid  me." 

"  Will  it  be  safe  ?  "  I  asked. 

"With  my  pass,  yes!"  he  assured  me 
haughtily. 

"  You  will  give  it  ?  " 

For  answer  he  took  an  envelope  from  his 
pocket,  tore  off  the  unmarked  side,  scribbled 
a  few  words  upon  it,  and  handed  it  to  me. 
In  spite  of  the  ruin  about  me,  of  the  account- 
ability in  which  I  held  this  man,  my  mood 
toward  him  softened. 

"  Thank  you,"  I  said  in  a  low  voice. 

He  shot  me  a  keen  glance,  saw  that  the 
paper  in  my  hand  shook  like  a  leaf  in  the 
wind,  then  strode  to  the  door,  and  closed  it 
behind  him,  and  in  a  moment  we  heard  his 
command  to  horse  ring  out  sharp  and  clear. 

I  stood  watching  them,  straining  my  eyes 
after  the  flying  figures  until  there  was  noth- 
ing to  be  seen  but  the  empty  road  and  the 
encircling  pines.  Mammy  sobbed  by  the 
hearth. 

184 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  Hush  !  "  I  commanded.  "  There  is  no 
use  in  crying." 

"  Miss  Lucy,  my  Lawd !     You  ain't  got  —  " 

"  I  will  see  what  I  have  got  left."  I  felt 
the  throb  of  soldierly  blood  in  my  veins. 
"  Where  is  Dick  ?  " 

"  I  ain't  seen  him."  She  shrieked  his 
name  out  into  the  yard  till  the  door  of  the 
low  hen-house  opened  and  Dick  showed  an 
ashy  face  at  the  opening.  She  ran  to  him 
while  I  went  to  meet  'Zekiel. 

"  I  done  saved  de  horses,  ebery  las'  one," 
he  called  out.  "  An'  de  cows  an'  oxen,  too, 
all  'cep'  dat  contrary  cow  what  I  had  to  leab 
behin',  an'  she  come  strollin'  'long  up  by  de 
barn  same  lak  she  want  to  show  herse'f  off." 
'Zekiel  had  gotten  up  to  the  gate  where  I 
waited  for  him. 

"  I  done  it  jes  as  easy,"  he  boasted  ex- 
citedly ;  "  yas,  sah !  I  had  done  carried 
dem  off  to  de  woods  an'  come  back.  I 
could  n't  stay  down  dyar  wid  'em  when  you 
alls  was  up  hyar  by  yo'se'ves ;  but  I  did  n't 
git  no  closer  to  de  house  dan  de  barn,  fer 
dat 's  whar  dey  cotch  me ;  an'  de  fus'  word 

185 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

dey  say  to  me  dey  'low, '  Whar  's  de  hosses  ?  ' 
an'  I  say  jes  as  solemn  lak,  — "  Daddy 
rolled  up  the  whites  of  his  eyes  and  puck- 
ered up  his  mouth,  —  "I  says,  ' We  ain't  got 
nary  Gawd-forsaken  one.'  '  Dat  's  a  lie/  says 
one.  An'  I  says,  *  Fo'  Gawd,  ef  you  '11  go 
down  dyar  to  de  top  o'  dat  gully  beyon' 
de  barn  you  '11  see  de  bones  o'  de  las'  one 
dat 's  died.'  An'  you  know,  Miss  Lucy,  de 
bones  o'  dat  ole  one  dat  died  las'  spring  is 
a-layin'  dyar  yit. 

"  Dey  fotch  a  lot  o'  grumblin'  arter  dat, 
but  dey  hitches  dyar  own  hosses  to  de  wagon, 
I  seen  dat,  an'  dey  ain't  nose  'round  aftah 


ours  no  mo'." 


"  Well,"  said  I,  "  I  am  mighty  glad  they 
are  safe;  but  I  am  sorry  you  had  to  tell  a 
story  about  it." 

"  A  story  !  "  indignantly  ;  "  did  you  ever 
hear  me  tell  anything  but  de  truf  in  all  yo' 
bohn  days  ?  " 

"What  was  it,  then?"  I  asked  a  trifle 
sharply. 

"  De-Lawd-a-mussy !  "  in  a  tone  of  pity- 
ing reproach.  "  Don't  you  know  Marse 

186 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

Robert    ain't    got    a    single    horse    on   de 
place  ? " 

"  There  are  two." 

"  An'  dem  's  mares,  bofe  on  'em.  Tellin' 
me  'bout  tellin'  de  truf!" 

I  had  to  laugh,  and  'Zekiel  listened  de- 
lightedly. "  I  suttenly  is  glad  to  hear  you ; 
laugh  jes'  as  much  as  you  can.  We'se  got 
de  Ole  Boy  to  contend  wid  now,  an'  don't 
nuthin'  put  him  out  lak  a  good  laugh.  Whar 
dyar  's  frowns  an'  grumbles,  dyar  he  is ;  but 
when  fokses  takes  to  laughin'  —  um !  he 
switches  his  tail  an'  hoofs  it.  Miss  Lucy, 
I  want  you  to  see  how  dey  is  done  cleaned 
us  out." 

It  was  true.  Our  crops  had  been  good 
that  year,  and  we  had  had  plenty  and  to 
spare ;  now  we  were  as  poor  as  the  poorest. 
We  came  up  from  the  barn,  heavy  of  foot 
and  of  heart,  as  the  dusk  was  thickening 
over  the  fields ;  and  we  saw  a  figure,  indis- 
tinct in  the  twilight,  hastening  toward  us 
along  the  path.  I  knew  her  on  the  instant, 
but  I  did  not  hurry,  though  she  ran,  stumbling 
along  the  rough  way  over  the  corn  furrows. 

187 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  Emily !  "  I  said  calmly  when  she  flung 
her  arms  about  me. 

"  Poor  child  !  poor  child !  "  she  cried. 

Mammy  bespoke  a  welcome  for  me.  "  Miss 
Em'ly !  Miss  Em'ly !  you  is  welcome  as  de 
angils." 

"  Did  you  drop  out  of  the  sky  ?  "  I  asked 
foolishly,  and  felt  the  tense  muscles  about 
my  mouth  relax  at  the  question. 

Emily  lifted  her  head  from  my  shoulder, 
and  slipped  her  arm  from  my  neck  to  my 
waist.  "  I  started  here  this  morning,"  she 
began.  "  I  got  as  far  as  the  Dragon  and  I 
heard  the  soldiers  were  at  The  Ordinary. 
We  turned  in  at  Oakleigh.  They  wanted 
me  to  stay.  I  was  afraid  to  come  on,  but  I 
was  wild  with  anxiety  about  you.  When 
I  said  I  would  come  anyhow  they  made  me 
start  on  horseback,  one  of  the  darkies  with 
me,  so  that  we  could  hide  in  the  woods,  if 
necessary.  At  The  Ordinary  I  heard  — 
The  darkey  was  scared  to  death.  I  sent 
him  home  with  the  horses  while  I  started 
through  the  woods.  Mercy,  how  scared  I 
wasl  I  am  such  a  coward,  you  know." 

[88 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

What  she  had  done  savored  of  it !  "I  was 
frightened  at  every  sound,  every  rustling 
leaf  or  snapping  twig.  When  I  got  to  the 
edge  of  the  woods  I  was  afraid  to  come 
another  step  until  I  saw  you." 

Mammy  had  hastened  before  us.  "  Come 
'long  in,"  she  called  from  the  doorstep. 
"  Lawd  knows,  Miss  Em'ly,  but  you 's  wel- 
come as  de  angils !  "  she  repeated. 

"  Perhaps  I  am  an  angel,"  said  Emily 
demurely,  as  she  felt  in  the  pocket  of  her 
gown,  drew  out  something  white  and  stiff 
and  rustling,  and  thrust  it  into  my  hand.  I 
looked  down  upon  a  letter  with  Robert's 
writing  upon  it. 

I  ran  into  the  chamber,  knelt  by  the 
light,  and  devoured  the  words  while  Mammy 
punched  the  logs  till  they  blazed  brighter ; 
and  she  and  Emily  talked  in  low  tones  as 
I  turned  the  full,  well-written  pages  which 
told  me  what  I  most  longed  to  know.  Rob- 
ert was  safe  and  well.  He  acknowledged  his 
wants,  but  to  make  light  of  them ;  he  wrote 
of  worn  clothes  and  of  hunger,  but  with  a 
jest;  he  couched  his  loving  thoughts  of  us 

189 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

in  such  warm  words  that  I  felt  as  if  I 
touched  a  ripple  of  that  current  which  flowed 
from  me  to  him,  from  him  to  me,  no  matter 
how  many  miles  might  stretch  between. 
When  I  had  finished  I  looked  at  mud-be- 
trampled  floor  and  empty  wardrobe,  remem- 
bered rifled  smokehouse  and  barn,  —  and 
laughed. 

"  Robert  is  safe,"  I  cried  from  my  seat 
on  the  rug.  "  So  long  as  he  is,  all  is  well ; 
I  care  for  nothing  else ! " 

"  Ah ! "  said  Emily  with  a  long-drawn 
breath  and  a  quick  look  of  pain.  I  suddenly 
remembered ;  I  dared  not  ask  of  Henry. 


190 


XIV 

SO  it  was  that  I  could  make  a  jest  of 
our  misfortunes,  and  laugh  at  our 
losses  till  Mammy  had  gone  to  her 
cabin,  night  had  settled  down,  and  we  were 
alone  in  the  house ;  then  I  grew  sober.  The 
wind  of  a  gathering  storm  grew  stronger 
and  howled  about  the  chimneys  and  clashed 
together  the  bare  branches  of  the  cherry  tree. 
It  came  in  long,  whistling  breaths;  and,  mad- 
dening in  their  intensity,  the  cattle,  driven 
up  from  their  hiding-place  to  the  shelter  of 
the  barn,  scented  the  fresh-spilled  blood,  and 
lifted  their  heads  for  the  piteous  moans 
which  set  us  a-shiver  as  they  drifted  down 
the  currents  of  the  air  to  come  echoing  back 
thrilling  with  anger,  fear,  despair. 

While  we  shrank  from  it  we  heard  the 
sting  of  rain  against  the  window-pane,  — 
a  wind-driven  rain  that  struck  like  shot 
against  the  glass.  I  piled  the  wood  on  the 

191 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

andirons,  brought  the  candle-stand  from  its 
resting-place  against  the  wall,  and  felt  with 
trembling  ringers  for  the  wooden  button 
which  would  hold  the  lowered  top  level  and 
true.  I  lighted  a  candle  and  placed  it  there, 
and  another  on  the  mantel-piece,  yet  in  all 
that  glow  of  candle-light  and  firelight  fear 
struck  through  us.  Our  chairs  rocked  closer 
together;  we  were  touching  each  other; 
Emily's  hand  groped  for  mine  and  held  it. 
A  great  gust  of  wind  howled  about  the 
house,  shook  at  the  doors,  and  brought  the 
rain  splashing  against  the  windows.  I  could 
not  resist  a  fearful,  searching  look  around 
the  bright,  familiar  room,  but  when  I  looked 
I  sprang  shrieking  to  my  feet.  Pressed 
against  the  glass  outside,  looking  in  on  us, 
was  a  man's  face. 

I  threw  Emily  to  the  floor  as  I  sprang 
up;  she  stumbled  to  her  feet,  brushed  the 
down-tumbled  hair  from  her  eyes,  and  looked 
where  I  still  pointed  with  outstretched  hand. 

"  Oh  !  "    But  it  was  a  cry  of  gladness.    She 
ran  out  in  the  hall,  I  after  her;  her  hands 
were  on  the  heavy  bar  fastening  the  door. 
192 


CALLED    TO    THE   FIELD 

"What  are  you  doing?"  I  demanded 
fiercely  as  I  struggled  with  her.  "  Are  you 
crazy  ?  " 

"  Are  you  ? "  She  pulled  at  the  bar,  but 
my  hands  held  hers  down.  "  Let  go !  "  she 
cried,  "  it 's  Henry !  " 

I  fell  back  against  the  wall,  limp  from 
the  reaction,  while  Emily  wrenched  open  the 
door  and  ran  out  into  the  darkness.  The 
storm  roared  through  the  hall  as  I  stumbled 
back  to  the  stair  and  sat  down  on  the  first 
low  step.  When  they  entered  their  figures 
were  like  one  in  the  darkness,  and  when 
they  came  into  the  light  streaming  from  the 
chamber,  her  eyes  were  as  bright  as  the 
raindrops  on  her  hair. 

They  found  me  and  carried  me  between 
them  back  to  the  fire,  where  Henry  knelt 
before  me  chafing  my  hands  and  wrists  as 
Robert  might  have  done ;  but  his  glance  went 
over  my  head  to  Emily  leaning  against  my 
chair,  and  had  it  been  Robert  —  suddenly  I 
remembered  that  Henry  must  have  seen  him, 
could  tell  me  a  hundred  things  I  longed  to 
know.  I  asked  an  eager  question,  another,  a 
13  193 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

dozen ;  and  Henry,  answering,  told  the  very 
things  I  thirsted  to  hear.  I  forgot  the  fright, 
the  day,  —  all  but  the  blessed  news  I  listened 
to.  As  he  talked  Emily  slipped  into  her  chair 
beside  me,  and  Henry  —  spoiled  fellow  that 
he  was  —  sat  at  her  feet  instead  of  kneeling 
before  mine,  laid  his  hand  a  second  on  her 
knee,  and  looked  up  into  her  face  with 
an  expression  I  had  never  dreamed  to  see. 
Haughty,  indolent,  ease-loving  as  was  his 
nature,  he  was  now  alert,  wistful,  pleading,  — 
all  in  one  breath. 

His  soft,  wide  hat  lay  on  the  floor  where 
he  had  flung  it,  the  capes  of  his  coat  hung 
loosely  upon  his  shoulders;  his  thin,  dark, 
eager  face  shone  in  the  firelight. 

As  I  looked  at  them,  in  spite  of  my  love 
for  both,  something  of  jealousy  —  not  of 
them,  but  of  their  happiness  —  some  cold 
feeling  crept  over  me.  "  You  had  better 
take  off  your  coat,"  I  cautioned,  a  tinge  of 
sarcasm  in  my  tone ;  "  Emily's  dress  will  be 
ruined." 

"  As  if  she  cared  for  that ! "  he  said  with 
a  laugh. 

194 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  It  will  be  hard  enough  to  get  a  new  one," 
she  assured  him  saucily ;  "  be  careful." 

I  made  some  excuse,  slipped  from  the 
chamber,  and  sped  up  the  narrow  stair.  A 
deadly  chill  was  in  the  air  of  the  attic  cham- 
ber. My  ringers  trembled  as  I  lighted  the 
pine  knots,  and  the  spluttering  flames  flared 
over  the  logs  above  them.  I  knelt  watching 
them,  and  though  I  thought  of  nothing  defi- 
nitely, yet  I  was  conscious  of  everything,  — 
that  day,  each  hour  of  it,  careless  or  bitter  or 
desperate,  —  of  every  event  of  my  life.  All 
seemed  pulsing  at  once  about  a  centre  which 
was  my  slim  self  shaken  with  their  vibrations. 
I  was  oblivious  of  storm  without  and  merry 
voices  below  until  the  outer  door  shook  with 
heavy  pounding,  and  the  shouting  of  my 
name  rang  above  the  beating  of  the  wind 
and  rain.  It  was  father. 

"  Are  you  safe  ?  "  he  cried  the  moment  he 
spied  me. 

"  Safe  as  a  church,"  called  Henry  cheerily. 

"  Who  is  here  ?  "  father  demanded  quickly. 

"  Why,  I,  sir !  "  Henry  seized  his  hand  on 
one  side  while  Emily  stole  up  to  the  other. 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  Were  you  here  ? "  was  father's  amazed 
cry.  I  could  see  the  faint  look  of  amusement 
on  Henry's  face  as  he  answered,  "  No !  " 

"  Nor  Emily  ?  no  one  ?  To  think  I  was 
not  at  home  ! " 

"  Perhaps  it  is  as  well  that  you  were  not." 

"  Why  ?  "  —  curt  and  sharp. 

"You  might  be  spending  to-night  at  the 
fort." 

Father  turned  hastily  away.  "  No,"  in 
answer  to  my  pleading  that  he  should  take 
off  his  coat.  "  Where  is  Dick  ?  —  abed,  I 
suppose." 

"  I  will  see."  But  Henry  was  before  me. 
A  beam  of  light  streamed  from  Mammy's 
window;  the  terrors  of  night  and  day  kept 
them  wide-eyed  and  hugging  the  comfort  of 
light  and  warmth. 

We  looked  for  a  torrent  of  execration  from 
father;  he  had  not  a  word  to  say.  He  cut 
Mammy  short  when  she  hurried  in  with  lam- 
entations, and  bade  her  go  to  bed  and  keep 
her  senses.  He  gave  Dick  and  'Zekiel  strict 
orders  about  the  care  of  his  horse,  which  he 
had  ridden  mercilessly;  then  he  sat  by  the 

196 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

fire,  the  steam  of  his  wet  clothes  enveloping 
him.  He  would  soon  be  going  to  bed,  he 
declared,  and  it  was  useless  to  change  them ; 
and  there  he  sat,  gazing  straight  ahead,  his 
lips  pressed  in  firm  lines,  his  muscles  tense, 
his  eyes  flashing  when  he  turned  to  look  at 
me.  In  an  hour  he  sent  us  up  to  the  attic; 
he  would  share  his  bed  with  Henry. 

If  I  had  held  any  hope  of  sleep  when  we 
went  up  to  my  room  under  the  roof  it  was 
soon  dissipated. 

In  the  low  bed  pushed  close  under  the 
eaves,  the  quilts  tucked  warmly  beneath 
our  chins,  our  eyes  on  the  flickering  flames 
which  first  flared  up  and  lighted  all  the  little 
room,  then  died  to  leave  it  eerie  and  dusky, 
while  the  furniture  snapped  weirdly  as  the 
heat  lessened  and  the  cold  stole  in,  with  the 
storm  howling  outside  and  the  rain  rattling 
upon  the  shingles  close  overhead,  —  Emily 
must  tell  the  tale  of  her  quarrel  with  Henry. 

I  was  wide-awake,  but  striving  to  straighten 
the  thoughts  of  the  day,  to  bring  them  into 
some  sort  of  order  so  that  my  memory  could 
shut  the  door  upon  them,  and  the  blessed 

197 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

oblivion  of  sleep  could  blot  them  out  of  sight, 
soften  their  rugged  outlines  till  they  would 
not  cut  deeply  when  taken  up  on  the  mor- 
row, when  Emily  asked  a  question : 

"  You  remember  Jack  Martin  ?  " 

"Yes."  I  did  not  want  to  talk;  I  an- 
swered as  curtly  as  possible. 

"  You  know  I  never  could  bear  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  once  more,  and  perhaps  a  trifle  re- 
sentfully. Beside  the  things  of  which  I 
thought,  Emily's  likes  and  dislikes  seemed 
trivial. 

"  Perhaps  I  showed  it  too  plainly.  You 
used  to  tell  me  so  sometimes,  you  remem- 
ber?" 

"  I  remember."  The  chorus  was  faint.  I 
did  not  then  know  that  she  wished  to  tell  me 
all  the  story  that  night,  and  I  longed  to  be 
left  to  myself. 

But,  of  course,  I  remembered  Jack  Martin. 
He  was  one  of  the  young  men  forever  at 
Emily's  house  or  hanging  around  her  when 
abroad ;  and  there  was  no  good  in  him  —  so 
I  had  thought  and  warned  her.  I  was  both 
right  and  wrong. 

198 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"Well,  I  never  thought  — "  She  paused 
for  a  long,  tantalizing  moment.  I  knew 
Emily;  I  realized  now  that  she  would  talk 
till  she  had  said  all  she  wanted  to,  so  I 
prodded  her  gently  with  my  elbow  when 
she  had  kept  too  long  silent. 

She  picked  up  the  thread  of  her  story. 
"  You  know  Henry  and  I  —  well,  you 
know  —  " 

"  I  suppose  I  do,"  shortly. 

She  giggled  under  the  bed-clothes.  "  I 
never  thought  anything  about  his  coming 
to  the  house  —  Jack,  you  know  —  or  —  any- 
thing else.  It  is  n't  always  because  a  man  is 
in  love  with  a  girl  that  he  visits  her  house; 
half  the  time  it's  the  people  he  meets,  the 
good  times  he  has."  Emily  was  notorious 
for  keeping  every  man  in  the  neighborhood 
around  her.  Her  mother  told  a  pathetic 
tale  now  and  then  of  "  No  room  left  to  hitch 
another  single  horse  at  the  palings,  and  not 
another  chair  to  be  found  to  be  put  to  the 
supper  table  "  on  Sundays.  "  I  always  said 
so;  but  Jack —  Pshaw!  I'll  just  have  to 
tell  you  straight  along." 

199 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  I  wish  to  heaven  you  would." 

"  You  need  n't  be  cross  about  it.  Well, 
one  day  Jack  was  coming  down  to  our  house 
and  he  stopped  by  the  store.  He  went  in 
for  something,  and  then  he  thought  he  would 
get  our  mail  and  bring  it  to  us.  He  got  the 
papers  and  the  letters  —  two  or  three  there 
were,  and  one  for  me.  He  knew  the  writing 
on  mine  —  it  was  Henry's."  Another  long 
pause. 

"  We  had  had  a  quarrel ;  we  will  never 
have  another." 

"  Hm  ! "  Emily's  and  Henry's  fallings-out 
were  numbered  by  the  score. 

"  Never !  We  will  never  forget  this  one. 
Why,  it  has  been  a  year  and  a  half  since  — 
since  —  " 

"  I  know."  And  then  we  laughed  softly, 
like  the  silly  girls  we  were. 

"  I  had  vowed  I  would  never  make  the 
slightest  effort  to  make  this  one  up,"  Emily 
went  on.  "  I  had  had  to  sometimes."  In 
that  careless,  indolent  fashion  of  his,  Henry 
was  both  imperious  and  self-willed. 

"It  had  lasted  a  week,  that  —  ah  —  mis- 
200 


CALLED   TO   THE    FIELD 

understanding,  when  Henry  sat  down  and 
wrote  me  a  long  letter.  That  was  the  one 
Jack  got.  He  tore  it  up." 

"  The  rascal !  " 

"Hush!     He  is  dead!" 

"  How  do  you  know  ? "  I  asked  in  awe- 
stricken  tones. 

"  He  died  three  days  ago.  He  was  wounded, 
you  know."  I  had  seen  his  name  on  that 
fatal  list  upon  the  chestnut.  "  He  was  in 
one  of  the  hospitals  of  Richmond.  He  knew 
Henry  was  in  the  city,  and  he  sent  for  him. 
When  Henry  went  to  him  — "  Emily's 
voice  sank  very  low,  its  clear,  gentle  tones 
beat  against  the  loud  and  wrathful  voices  of 
the  night. 

"  Henry  says  that  it  was  dreadful.  Jack 
told  him  that  he  had  loved  me,  that  he  knew 
it  was  senseless,  but  he  could  n't  keep  away." 

"  What  did  I  tell  you  ?  " 

"  That  he  knew  Henry  and  I  had  quarrelled, 
and  when  he  had  that  letter  inside  his  pocket 
he  almost  knew  the  words  written  in  it.  He 
kept  thinking,  he  said,  '  Suppose  she  does  n't 
get  it?'  and  then  he  began  to  imagine  what 
201 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

might  happen ;  as  if  —  When  he  was  nearly 
to  the  lane,  he  got  off  his  horse,  sat  down  on 
that  old  log  under  the  oak  tree,  tore  the 
letter  to  bits,  and  hid  the  pieces  under  the 
log.  That's  all. 

"  Henry  went  straight  to  his  captain.  He 
told  him  he  had  to  come  home.  He  was 
going  to  stop  here  to-night,  steal  over  to  his 
mother's,  and  see  me  somehow.  Do  you 
think  there  is  any  danger  in  his  staying 
here  ?  He  is  safe  ?  " 

"  For  to-night."  I  answered  grimly.  "  The 
lightning  has  struck.  But  he  had  better  get 
away  to-morrow." 

With  my  hand  under  my  pillow,  touching 
the  precious  letter  there,  I  fell  asleep. 


202 


XV 

"  "ITJENRY,  it  is  not   safe  for  you  to 
stay  in  the  county  a  day." 

Henry  turned  lazily  in  his  chair, 
and  looked  at  father  quizzically. 

"  You  had  better  try  and  get  across  the 
Dragon  at  once  and  back  into  Middlesex." 

"  I  must  see  my  mother  first." 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of  ?  " 

"  Of  her." 

"  Good  God  !  what  a  fool !  " 

Henry  smiled  serenely,  stuck  out  his  foot 
a  little  nearer  to  the  fire.  "  Cold,  this  morn- 
ing," he  commented ;  "  raw  too,  pretty  bad 
day  for  a  ride." 

"  What  do  you  expect  to  do,  sir  ?  "  father 
fumed. 

"  Stay  here."  A  look  about  the  room,  at 
Emily's  bright  face,  at  me,  at  father,  bespoke 
his  content  with  his  surroundings. 

"  You  shall  not." 

203 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  Mr.  Yancey,  I  have  never  been  forbidden 
your  house."  Henry's  voice  was  steady, 
though  his  eyes  twinkled. 

"  You  are  not  now,  you  know  it ;  but  you 
can't  stay  here ;  you  can't.  Don't  you  sup- 
pose they  know  ? " 

Henry's  quick  glance  showed  him  Emily's 
face  unchanged  from  its  happy  serenity ;  he 
looked  back  at  father  with  a  distinct  show 
of  relief  on  his  keen,  eager  face.  "You  mean 
do  the  Yankees  know  I  am  here  ?  "  he  an- 
swered lightly.  "  How  could  they  ?  I  '11 
risk  it  anyhow. 

"  Don't  worry,  Mr.  Yancey,"  he  added, 
"  There 's  no  chance  of  my  seeing  an  enemy 
here  to-day.  I  shall  wait  till  dark,  the  roads 
will  be  safe  then.  Besides,  I  could  cut  through 
the  woods  by  broad  daylight,  I  know  every 
path  of  the  county  ;  still  —  " 

"  You  will  not." 

"  You  went  to  Bellevue  yesterday,"  Henry 
quizzed. 

"  I  am  an  old  man." 

"  Not  so  old  now,"  laughed  Henry ;  "  they 
may  impress  you  yet." 
204 


CALLED   TO    THE    FIELD 

"  I  wish  they  would,"  vowed  father,  with  a 
flash  of  eagerness. 

"  They  may  —  "  Henry  bit  back  the  words 
it  was  evident  he  wished  to  speak,  and  flung 
himself  back  in  the  chair  with  his  old  manner 
of  happy  indifference.  "  I  shall  have  one  day 
at  least,"  he  said  contentedly. 

"  If  you  stay  here  Dick  shall  be  posted  on 
horseback  at  the  front  gate ;  your  horse  shall 
be  kept  saddled  at  the  back  fence.  In  case 
of  surprise  make  for  the  woods  back  of  us." 

"  I  could  not  allow  you  to  take  such  trouble, 
not  for  a  moment." 

"  You  will  have  to,"  said  father,  shortly,  as 
he  fitted  his  crutch  under  his  arm. 

"  Mr.  Yancey  — " 

"  Father,  wait  a  moment!  "  I  called  as  his 
hand  was  on  the  latch.  "  I  am  going  down 
to  Miss  Nancy's.  We  are  to  carry  the  silver 
Mammy  saved  yesterday,  everything  that  can 
be  spared  from  what  is  left,  for  safe  keeping. 
Henry  must  go  with  us,  Henry  and  Emily 
both." 

They  questioned  each  other's  eyes.     "  Of 
course,"  cried  Emily,  gayly. 
205 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  Then  get  ready.     I  am  going  directly." 

I  followed  father  into  the  hall,  and  together 
we  made  some  hasty  plans  for  the  day.  "  I 
shall  try  and  keep  them  there  until  night," 
I  declared.  "  Mammy  is  going  with  me. 
We  shall  both  have  to  come  back;  she  can 
stay  and  get  your  dinner,  and  Dick  will  go 
back  with  me  the  second  time.  If  there 
is  any  alarm,  any  news,  send  'Zekiel  after 
us." 

In  half  an  hour  we  started.  The  path 
was  slippery  and  muddy  from  the  heavy  rain 
of  the  night.  The  sky  was  still  clouded  and 
gray,  though  the  blue  showed  a  narrow 
breadth  of  promise  in  the  west.  Mammy 
led  the  line,  a  bundle  of  her  treasures  tied  in 
a  gaudy  quilt  balanced  upon  her  head ;  her 
arms  were  akimbo,  her  walk  a  compromise 
between  a  waddle  and  a  wrathful  stride ;  her 
face  was  grim,  determined,  her  thick  lips 
pressed  close  together  and  pursed  out,  a 
companion  sign  of  angry  determination  with 
the  furrows  in  her  fat  forehead. 

Dick  followed  with  a  basket  of  silver  on 
his  arm.  His  eyes  bulged  out  with  fear,  yet 
206 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

the  unusual  touched  his  love  of  excitement, 
so  that  he  was  not  altogether  miserable.  He 
skipped  across  slippery  furrows,  jumped  shal- 
low pools ;  and  by  and  by,  forgetting  his 
fright,  began  to  sing  under  his  breath :  — 

"  Possum  tail  am  ringed  all  'round, 
Raccoon  tail  am  byar ; 
Ole  hyar  ain't  got  no  tail  at  all, 
Nuthin'  but  a  patch  o'  hyar." 

"Quit  dat  foolishness!"  called  Mammy, 
scornfully,  but  she  could  not  turn  her  head 
to  scare  him  with  a  wrathful  look,  and 
Dick  soon  forgot,  and  began  another  of 
his  favorites :  — 

"  Ole  Molly  hyar 
What  you  doin'  dyar  ?  " 

"  Shut  yo'  black  mouf,  or  I  lay  I  '11  make 
you ! "  Mammy  snapped,  and  Dick  went 
quietly. 

I  could  not  see  Emily  nor  Henry  without 
turning  my  head.  I  had  mercifully  left  them 
to  the  rear  of  the  little  procession  which, 
under  the  leaden  skies,  made  its  way  across 
the  muddy  field. 

Down  in  the  depths  of  those  dismal,  drip- 
207 


CALLED   TO    THE    FIELD 

ping  woods  was  no  place  for  song  from  even 
Dick's  careless  lips.  Leaves  and  pine  needles 
under  foot  were  sodden ;  the  marshy  pools 
were  black  and  overflowing;  only  Henry 
and  Emily  kept  up  a  murmur  of  conversa- 
tion behind  us.  For  me,  I  pushed  back  my 
sun-bonnet  and  drew  a  breath  of  relief 
when  we  came  out  in  sight  of  the  clearing. 
I  clambered  up  on  top  of  the  fence  and 
waved  to  Miss  Nancy,  who  had  come  won- 
dering to  the  door  when  the  hounds  broke 
into  a  clamor  of  barking. 

"  Land's  sakes,  it 's  Lucy ! "  she  called. 
"  Here,  Nick,  here !  Here,  Nero !  shut  up, 
will  you  ?  Go  back !  "  She  threw  a  stick  at 
them  and  sent  them  howling  away  as  she 
hurried  to  meet  us,  holding  her  short  scant 
skirts  up  from  the  wet.  Anxiety  was  in 
every  line  of  her  face;  Miss  Molly  follow- 
ing her  was  too  sober  for  her  good-natured 
grin. 

"  Child,  I  am  so  glad   to   see   you,"  Miss 

Nancy  called  to  me,  ignoring  for  a  second 

the  others.     "  I  have  been  fairly  crazy  about 

you.     We  know.     We  heard  all  about  it. 

208 


CALLED    TO    THE   FIELD 

They  sent  us  word  from  Oakleigh ;  that  is," 
correcting  herself  primly,  "  they  sent  for 
something  and  the  man  told  us.  Come  right 
on  to  the  house.  And  if  here  ain't  Emily, 
and  —  well,  I  declare.  Come  on  in.  You 
are  drenched,  every  one  of  you.  I  always  did 
say  it  rains  twice  in  those  woods,  once  when 
it 's  raining  everywhere  else,  and  again  when 
the  wet  is  trickling  off  the  trees,  sliding 
down  when  you  least  look  for  it,"  Miss 
Nancy  chattered  as  she  led  the  way  into 
the  house,  Miss  Molly  following  her  like  a 
shadow,  but  a  shadow  many  times  too  big; 
and  for  once  Miss  Molly  was  dumb. 

"  Sit  right  down  and  make  yourselves  com- 
fortable. You  want  me  to  take  care  of  these 
things,  you  say.  That  I  will.  Nobody  will 
ever  find  them  here.  Poor  child !  "  She 
began  again  her  lamentations,  but  of  those  I 
had  had  a  surfeit.  I  never  cared  half  so  much 
for  people's  sympathy  over  what  had  already 
happened  as  I  did  for  help  in  what  might 
come,  and  I  despised  being  pitied.  Let  me 
fight  out  my  sorrows  alone;  my  joys  I  will 
gladly  share. 

14  209 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

I  began  at  once  to  boast.  "  I  have  a  letter 
from  Robert." 

"  You  have  ?  "  with  a  look  of  expectancy. 

"  I  will  tell  you  about  it  after  awhile." 
And  I  made  the  promise  a  pretext  for  fol- 
lowing her  when  she  went  out  into  the  hall. 

"  Miss  Nancy,"  I  whispered, "  will  it  be  any 
trouble  to  you  if  we  spend  the  day  here  ?  " 

"  La,  no !  I  should  be  proud  to  have  you, 
proud.  Can  you  really  stay  ?  "  she  asked 
eagerly,  her  thin  little  figure  tiptoeing  for- 
ward as  if  to  hear  the  quicker. 

"  If  we  could,  if  you  are  sure  —  " 

"  Nothing  in  the  world  would  make  us 
happier,  nothing,"  she  avowed,  with  her 
quaint  manner  of  repeating  a  word  like  a 
refrain. 

I  told  my  plan  and  the  reasons  for  it,  her 
head  nodding  to  every  phrase. 

"  I  '11  call  sister  Molly  and  ask  her  to 
help." 

"  Do,  and  leave  those  two  alone." 

"  You  don't  tell  me !    You  don't  mean  —  " 

I  laughed,  and  her  black  eyes  twinkled 
with  comprehension. 

210 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"I  will,"  she  vowed,  "that  I  will.  Poor 
things !  When  is  he  going  back  ?  " 

"  He  should  be  on  his  way  now." 

"  But  you  know  how  he  must  want  to 
stay,  now  don't  you?  He  will  be  safe 
here,  yes,  indeed.  You  don't  have  to  go 
back  ?  " 

I  told  her  I  must. 

"You  will  be  back  for  dinner,  certainly? 
and  I  '11  leave  them  there  to  themselves. 
Bring  your  father  with  you,"  in  an  excess 
of  hospitality,  for  Miss  Nancy  was  genuinely 
afraid  of  father's  brusqueness.  "  Tell  him 
not  to  stay  there  alone." 

"  I  am  going  to  cook  dinner  in  Sister 
Molly's  house,"  she  whispered  at  Miss 
Molly's  door;  and  I  was  glad  to  think,  as 
I  went  back  through  the  sombre  woods,  of 
those  two  alone  in  that  peaceful  room. 

The  sun  was  setting  when  we  went  home ; 
Henry's  horse  was  tied  at  the  gate  as  he  had 
asked  that  it  should  be,  but  father  urged 
again  that  the  foolhardy  venture  should  not 
be  made. 

211 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

Henry  was  happy  enough  to  be  careless. 
"  The  soldiers  are  not  out  of  the  fort  to-day; 
they  are  hugging  the  fires,"  he  declared,  as 
he  pulled  at  his  saddle-girth  to  see  if  it  were 
carefully  buckled. 

"  Better  not  risk  it." 

Emily,  close  by  Henry's  side,  urged  in 
words  which  could  not  be  heard,  face  and 
manner  telling  the  tale. 

"  No,  I  must  see  mother ;  then  I  will  be 
off." 

"  It  is  too  dangerous,  Henry ;  you  know  it. 
Leave  a  letter  for  her." 

"  And  tell  her  her  son  was  within  ten  miles 
of  her  and  afraid  to  come  and  see  her  ?  "  His 
tone  was  sufficient.  "  It  will  soon  be  dark ; 
I  must  be  off." 

He  bade  us  each  good-by  and  came  at  last 
to  Emily  where  she  leaned  against  the  pal- 
ings, her  eyes  glowing  and  her  face  gleaming 
white  in  the  dusk.  He  looked  at  her  with 
longing  and  laughter  both  in  his  eyes,  then, 
with  a  swift  look  of  daring  at  us,  he  bent  to 
kiss  her  and  was  gone.  Red  and  white  — 
shame  and  sorrow  —  chased  each  other  over 
212 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

Emily's  cheek  as  we  watched  him  canter 
down  the  lane,  and  turn  at  the  pines  to 
wave  good-by ;  we  went  sorrowfully  into  the 
house. 

The  excitement  which  had  upheld  us  with 
its  false  strength,  the  cheerfulness  we  had 
pretended,  the  fear  we  had  in  reality  felt, 
blent  into  a  common  mood  of  lethargy,  a 
dull  torpor  which  sent  us  early  to  bed  and 
fitful  dreams,  and  left  listless  moments  as  its 
heritage,  despite  the  sparkling  frost  and  the 
cool  air  and  the  clear  sky  of  the  morrow. 

I  hugged  the  fireplace  and  paid  little  at- 
tention to  father,  as  he  rummaged  about  in 
the  chimney  closet  and  then,  after  wrapping 
his  big  shawl  about  him,  went  out;  but 
soon  I  heard  the  discordant  creaking  with 
which  the  grindstone  under  the  cherry  tree 
was  set  to  work. 

"  Dick,  you  rascal,"  father  fussed, "  look  out 
there;  be  careful!  Pour  the  water  in  a  steady 
stream  ;  not  so  much,  you  numskull !  " 

I  loitered  to  the  window  and  looked  out  at 
them.  Dick's  hand  was  unsteady  from  the 
cold ;  his  face  was  ashy,  his  teeth  chatter- 
213 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

ing.  The  gourd  shook  as  he  tried  to  hold 
it  at  the  right  angle  above  the  stone  and 
let  the  water  trickle  down  upon  it  drop  by 
drop. 

I  picked  up  my  shawl  and  ran  out. 
"  Here,"  I  cried  to  the  boy,  "  give  it  to  me. 
Run  along  to  the  kitchen  and  warm  yourself. 
You  look  as  if  you  were  frozen.  What  are 
you  doing,  father  ?  "  I  asked,  as  I  stood  with 
gourd  poised  in  air. 

He  pursed  his  lips  together  and  bent  over 
the  slowly  turning  stone  without  a  word. 
The  wind  softly  tossed  the  thick  gray  hair 
on  his  temples  and  the  fringe  of  his  heavy 
shawl,  and  reddened  his  firm  cheek ;  his 
eyes  flashed  like  the  steel  he  held  in  his 
hands  as  he  ground  the  knife  to  an  edge. 
When  it  was  sharpened  to  his  satisfaction  he 
laid  it  upon  the  wooden  frame  which  held 
the  stone,  took  another  from  his  pocket,  and 
began  working  on  it. 

My  hand  was  steady.     The  water  fell  as 
he  wished  it,  drop  by  drop ;  the  sound  of  its 
trickling  and  of  the  grinding  mingled  with 
the  clashing  of  the  bare  boughs  overhead. 
214 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

Father  had  not  answered  my  question, 
and  speech  was  an  effort  that  dull  morning. 
I  stood  silent  while  the  wheel  whirled  and 
creaked,  and  father  ground  and  bent  the 
blade,  tried  it,  and  made  yet  a  finer  edge. 
When  it  was  done  to  his  liking  he  straight- 
ened himself.  "  Put  it  in  your  pocket,  some- 
where about  you  ;  never  be  without  it !  "  He 
handed  me  the  gleaming  steel  across  the  blue- 
gray  stone  ;  and  astounded,  wide-eyed,  gaz- 
ing back  at  him,  I  read  in  his  flashing  eyes 
the  fear  I  had  not  yesterday  dreamed  of,  and 
by  it  measured  the  agony  of  his  apprehension. 
The  horror  for  a  moment  deadened  me.  I 
did  not  hear  Emily's  step  nor  know  that  she 
had  come  out  of  the  house  until  I  heard  her 
say  behind  me,  low  and  steady:  "  Give  me 
the  other." 

"  I  will,"  father  flashed. 

Our  backs  were  toward  the  lane,  and  so 
absorbed  were  we  that  we  did  not  know  that 
any  one  was  near  till  a  shrill  "  Mr.  Yancey ! 
Mr.  Yancey !  "  startled  us.  "  Here  's  a  note." 
A  negro  leaned  from  a  foam-lathered  horse. 
"  I  done  come  de  very  minute  Mr.  Rowan 
215 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

heard  de  news.  Dey  done  caught  Marse 
Henry  Latham,  dat  dey  is ;  dey  got  him  las' 
night." 

Without  a  sound  Emily  sank  down  on  the 
green  grass  at  our  feet. 


316 


XVI 

BEFORE  Emily  opened  her  eyes  father 
was  hobbling  away,  his  exclamations, 
"  Goose  —  idiot  —  fool !  "  trailing  after 
him.  I  thought  them  meant  for  Emily  at  first 
—  father  hated  a  scene  —  but  that  last  word 
was  for  Henry  and  his  foolhardiness,  though 
I  could  have  applied  it  myself  to  Emily  and 
her  nonsensical  fainting-fit.  I  was  wild  with 
anxiety  for  the  one  in  real  danger ;  how  had 
he  been  captured  ?  what  would  it  mean  ? 
Would  he  not  be  released  as  one  of  our 
county  men  had  been?  At  the  worst  could 
they  do  more  than  hold  him  to  be  exchanged  ? 
Why  was  father  so  frightened  ? 

As  soon  as  I  dared  I  left  Mammy  to  care 
for  Emily  while  I  went  in  search  of  father. 
I  found  him  in  the  dining-room,  standing 
before  the  hearth,  where  the  fire  lighted  for 
breakfast  still  smouldered.  The  big  cat,  who 
had  lazily  lingered  by  the  warmth,  rubbed 
217 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

against  his  knee  purring  a  hoarse  note  of 
satisfaction ;  but  father  noticed  neither  him 
nor  me. 

"  How  is  Emily?  "  he  asked  without  turn- 
ing his  head. 

"  There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  her  to 
amount  to  much.  I  don't  see  why  she  should 
have  been  so  foolish  —  "  father  shot  me  a 
keen  glance  — "  nor  you  either,"  I  added 
irritably.  "  You  looked  frightened  to  death." 

Father  shrugged  his  shoulders  impatiently. 

"  At  the  worst  they  can  but  hold  Henry 
for  exchange  ?  " 

"Pshaw!" 

"  Why  not  ?  "  —  sharply.  "  You  think  so 
yourself  ?  " 

"  No,  Henry  has  been  a  fool.  He  should 
have  told  you  what  he  was  about." 

"He  did.     He  said  — " 

"  Oh,  that  was  straight  enough,  but  before 
—  I  have  no  patience  with  him." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  I  said 
faintly. 

"  No,  and  won't  until  I  tell  you  right  out. 
Henry  was  a  government  scout,  that  was 
218 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

what  he  would  call  it.     They  might  give  it 
another  name." 

"  What  ?  "  I  gasped. 

"  Spy !  Spy !  You  Ve  got  it  now." 
Father's  anxiety  was  the  secret  of  his  rough- 
ness. "  Good  God  !  don't  you  get  to  faint- 
ing too.  The  Lord  deliver  me  from  a  lot  of 
frightened  women;  if  they  don't  faint  they 
take  to  crying." 

"  I  am  not  doing  either,"  I  asserted  proudly. 

41  No  ?  "  with  an  anxious  glance  at  the 
door. 

I  ran  to  it  and  shut  it,  I  feared  our  whis- 
pers might  penetrate  through  it  and  that 
other  door  to  Emily's  ear,  and  she  had  heard 
enough. 

"  Do  they  know  ?  "  I  whispered. 

"  I  think  they  do,"  —  with  intense  irony. 

"  What  will  they  do  with  him?  "  I  breathed. 

"  Hang  him,  if  they  don't  do  him  the  cour- 
tesy to  shoot  him." 

"  No,  no  !     They  shall  not !  " 

"  Who  will  prevent  them  ?     You  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I."  It  was  but  bravado  which 
prompted  me. 

219 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

Father  leaned  over  on  his  crutch  and 
peered  into  my  face.  "  You  have  lost  your 
senses,"  he  said  shortly. 

"  Perhaps  I  have." 

I  whirled  from  him,  ran  up  to  my  room. 
In  one  flash,  as  if  lightning  had  laid  it  bare,  I 
saw  a  thing  to  be  done  for  Henry's  life,  and 
I  alone  could  do  it.  Had  I  the  courage  ? 
Dare  I  try?  Would  there  not  be  a  thou- 
sand chances  for  failure  against  one  slender 
possibility  of  success  ?  I  threw  myself  face 
downward  on  the  bed,  pressed  the  covers 
about  my  ears,  held  myself  to  that  mental 
vision,  and  marked  out  the  thing  I  could 
venture  on,  knowing  that  at  the  last  I  must 
trust  to  chance.  Still,  with  that  glimmer  to 
lead  me  on,  I  dared  not  do  nothing. 

I  heard  Mammy  when  she  went  out  to  the 
kitchen,  and  followed  her  there.  She  had 
already  placed  her  pots  and  kettles  on  the 
hearth.  "  Ise  doin'  de  bes'  I  can,"  she 
grumbled  as  soon  as  she  saw  me.  "  Ise  got 
dis  dinnah  to  cook  an'  Ise  gwine  do  it,  but 
my  haid  is  whirled  clean  erroun'.  What 
wid  yistiddy  and  de  day  befo',  an'  now  dese 
220 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

doin's,  dis  darky 's  got  a  little  mo'  dan  she 
can  stan'.  Let  erlone  Sam." 

I  stood  still  and  listened,  seeing  that  she 
veered  to  the  very  point  I  wished. 

"  My  po'  boy  dyar  widout  one  soul  whar 
knows  a  thing  erbout  him,  wid  nobody 
to  'tend  to  him.  What  is  gwine  come  o' 
him  ? " 

"  Why  don't  you  go  and  see  ?  "  I  asked 
gently. 

Mammy  whirled  around,  scattering  the 
hot  coals  with  her  skirt. 

"  Look  out !  "     I  warned. 

"  Why  don't  I  ?  name  o'  sense  how  is  I 
gwine  git  dyar  ?  " 

"  I  told  you  I  would  take  you." 

"  An'  you  's  doin'  it,  ain't  you  ?  " 

"  There  has  n't  been  time." 

u  One  whole  day  an'  a  piece." 

"  I  am  going  now." 

"  La,  honey !  "  Her  thick  lips  dropped 
apart. 

"  Get  ready  as  soon  as  you  can  ;  but  don't 
tell  a  soul  what  you  are  going  to  do,  mind 
you !  Tell  Dick  to  put  both  horses  to  the 
221 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

buggy  and  drive  them  to  the  gate.  You 
watch  the  barn  and  start  the  minute  you  see 
him  drive  out." 

"  Glory  be !  Ise  gwine  git  ready  dis  min- 
ute. Ise  gwine  fix  him  up  some  med'cine." 

"  What  will  you  take  him  ?  What  do  you 
give  him  when  he  has  one  of  these  spells  ?  " 

"  Fus'  one  thing  an'  den  anuddah;  ef 
boneset  don't  fotch  him  I  tries  peppah ;  but 
de  bes'  o'  all  is  a  good  sweat  in  a  feathah 
baid  wid  a  brick  at  his  haid  an'  one  at  his 
feet ;  it  seems  fairly  to  wuk  de  trouble  out 
long  wid  de  sweat. 

"  Ef  I  jes  had  a  little  laud'num,"  she  be- 
moaned as  she  bustled  heavily  about ;  "  when 
de  pain  is  real  downright  sharp  I  gives  him 
dat." 

"  There  is  a  little  in  the  house." 

"  Ef  you  '11  jes  give  me  some." 

I  promised  ;  already  the  plan  worked  well. 

I  hurried,  but  I  was  barely  ready  when  the 
roll  of  wheels  was  heard.  I  had  trusted  to 
get  away  unseen  until  it  was  too  late  for 
interruption,  but  father  was  in  the  hall  and 
through  the  open  door  I  caught  a  glimpse 
222 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

of  Emily's  white  cheek  where  she  lay  asleep 
from  the  anodyne  we  had  given  her. 

"What's  that  buggy  for?"  father  de- 
manded. 

"  For  me  to  take  Mammy  to  see  Sam." 
Fast  as  my  heart  beat  I  spoke  carelessly. 

"  To  the  fort  ?  " 

"  That 's  where  he  is." 

"  You  have  lost  your  senses !  "  he  railed, 
repeating  the  accusation  he  had  before  made. 

"  I  shall  need  to  find  them,"  I  answered 
airily. 

"  You-shall-not-go  ! "  thumping  his  crutch 
upon  the  floor  with  each  word  for  emphasis. 

"  I  must,"  I  pleaded,  but  he  stood  squarely 
in  the  door  barring  my  exit,  and  he  moved 
not  one  inch. 

I  looked  at  him  for  a  breath's  space,  but 
saw  that  he  was  obdurate.  "  Let  me  pass?  " 
I  begged. 

"  You,  a  young  woman  !  " 

"  Look  at  me."     I  turned  slowly  about.     I 

was  swathed  in  shawls  and  bonnet  and  veil. 

"  I  have  a  pass  from  the  captain  who  was 

here   yesterday   permitting   us   to  visit   the 

223 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

camp.  While  we  are  there  something  might 
happen.  I  might  think  of  something,  some 
chance.  I  must  do  it.  You  must  let  me." 

11 1  shall  not." 

I  gathered  up  my  skirts,  fled  through  the 
back  door  around  the  house,  and  out  to  the 
carriage  before  he  had  an  idea  of  what  I 
was  doing ;  in  a  second  more  I  was  by 
Mammy's  side,  the  reins  in  my  hands,  the 
buggy  rocking  from  side  to  side  as  we  sped 
down  the  lane. 

I  drove  fast  and  furiously  up  hill  and 
down,  and  at  top  speed  along  the  level 
stretches.  Mammy  had  not  a  word  to  say  ; 
she  was  torn  between  her  anxiety  for  Sam 
and  her  fear  for  me. 

My  own  heart  sank  lower  and  lower  as  we 
sped.  Timid  as  I  had  always  been,  shy  of 
disposition,  and  shielded  by  the  surround- 
ings of  home,  by  father  and  husband,  why 
had  I  ever  dreamed  so  dare-devil  a  thing  ? 
What  could  I  hope  to  do  even  were  I  once 
within  the  fort  ?  What  danger  might  there 
not  be  ?  My  teeth  chattered,  I  shook  as 
with  an  ague  when  we  turned  down  the 
224 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

road  toward  the  river  and  the  fort.  If 
Mammy  had  not  been  by  my  side,  if  Emily's 
face  had  not  flashed  before  me,  I  should 
have  turned  the  horses  around,  raced  for 
home,  hidden  in  the  thick  woods  shadowing 
the  road,  —  done  anything  but  gone  on. 

I  was  so  sick  with  fear  that  it  was  like 
nausea.  My  nervous  fingers  let  the  reins 
slip  loose ;  the  horses  swerved  to  one  side, 
jolted  over  a  log,  and  shook  Mammy  half 
way  off  her  seat. 

"  To'  Gawd,"  she  groaned,  "  if  you  cyarnt 
drive  no  bettah  'n  dat  you  '11  brek  down  befo' 
we  gits  dyar." 

The  prophecy  sobered  me.  The  raw  salt 
air  struck  in  our  faces  ;  we  were  nearly  there. 
The  sheltering  woods  were  left  behind,  and 
before  us  stretched  a  sandy  level  which  ran 
straight  to  the  high  bluffs  by  the  river, 
where,  huge  and  threatening  to  my  fright- 
ened eyes,  loomed  the  earthworks  of  the 
fort.  A  bastion  before  the  ramparts  guarded 
the  entrance  and  upon  its  heights  paced  a 
sentinel  who  peered  forward  at  us  as  we 
drove  toward  him  out  of  the  dusk. 
J5  225 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"Halt!" 

I  pulled  the  horses  back  on  their  haunches. 

His  questions  were  so  quick,  so  rapidly 
spoken,  and  I  was  so  breathless  from  nerv- 
ousness and  fright  that  we  could  make  no 
sense  between  us ;  but  at  the  shouting  a 
soldier  came  running  out  from  the  inner 
gate  and  I  managed  to  tell  him  enough  of 
my  errand  to  send  him  hastening  back  into 
the  fort  with  my  precious  slip  of  paper  in 
his  hands.  As  we  waited,  the  wind  cutting 
about  us  and  the  horses  twisting  restlessly 
beneath  its  keen  lashings,  I  could  hear  noth- 
ing, no  howling  of  the  winds  over  the  dreary 
levels,  no  sound  of  the  tide  on  the  shore, 
only  my  heart  pounding  until  it  seemed  as 
if  the  sound  of  its  throbbing  must  reach  up 
to  that  figure  which,  straight  and  stern,  was 
outlined  against  the  faint  light  of  the  west- 
ern sky,  as  he  leaned  upon  his  gun  and 
looked  down  at  us,  a  type  of  the  inexorable, 
a  symbol  of  that  power  against  which  I  —  / 
—  was  dreaming  to  pit  my  wits. 

I  felt  weak  and  helpless  enough  to  cry,  to 
break  into  wild  sobbing,  when  the  soldier 

226 


CALLED   TO    THE    FIELD 

returned ;  but  his  first  words,  grumpily  and 
shortly  spoken,  sent  the  blood  from  its  rush- 
ing to  my  head  and  brought  back  to  me 
some  semblance  of  common-sense. 

"  Captain  Leighton  is  not  here,  but  you 
will  be  admitted  on  his  pass." 

I  clambered  down  at  once ;  I  was  so  un- 
certain in  my  movements,  so  stiff  from  the 
cold  and  my  long  drive,  that  with  my  swath- 
ings  and  in  the  dusk  I  seemed  to  perfection 
the  old  woman  I  had  hoped  to  be  thought, 
as  we  stumbled  after  our  guide. 

I  feared  when  we  had  rounded  the  outer 
embankment  and  passed  the  sentinels  at  the 
inner  gate  that  we  would  be  taken  to  head- 
quarters and  examined  there ;  I  knew  where 
the  rude  buildings  stood  at  the  head  of  the 
inclosure,  looking  down  the  rows  of  shanties 
built  of  logs  and  rough  weather-boardings  — 
Robert  had  too  often  described  it  all  for  me 
not  to  know  —  but  our  guide  swerved  to  the 
left,  and  skirted  the  sides  of  the  outermost 
cabins. 

"  He  's  down  here,"  he  said  shortly,  as  he 
pointed  to  a  fire  streaming  up  into  the  dark- 
227 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

ness,  beyond  the  buildings,  yet  within  the 
ramparts  and  sheltered  by  them. 

Mammy  cast  fearful  glances  about  her, 
but  I  went  looking  straight  ahead,  holding 
fast  to  my  courage  with  both  hands.  Still 
I  saw,  as  if  it  were  burnt  on  my  brain,  how 
ghostlike  looked  the  rows  of  shanties,  how 
weird  were  the  rude  interiors,  when  their 
rough  tables  and  rusty  stoves  and  bunks 
built  against  the  walls  showed  through  an 
open  door;  how  listless  were  the  soldiers, 
lounging  there  or  in  the  open  spaces.  I  saw  a 
tall  lank  figure  stoop  over  the  fire  we  neared 
and  turn  the  meat  hanging  from  the  forked 
saplings  crossed  above  the  flames;  saw  the 
light  flash  back  from  the  cannon  embedded 
in  the  earthworks  near ;  and,  with  the  keen 
perception  of  such  moments,  heard  the  sul- 
len sound  of  the  wind-lashed  river,  and  the 
whirling  of  the  spiteful  gusts  about  the  fort. 

"There,"  cried  the  soldier,  "there  he  is. 
You  can  see  for  yourself  there  is  nothing 
the  matter  with  him."  He  added  some 
grumblings  about  "  so  much  fuss  about  one 
nigger." 

228 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

At  the  sound  of  voice  and  footsteps  Sam 
wheeled  nervously. 

"  Sam  !  Sam  !  "  cried  Mammy. 

The  boy  gazed  fearfully  at  us;  he  could 
not  believe  it  possible  that  we  were  there. 

"Sam!" 

"  Mammy ! "  he  cried  as  he  ran  to  her ; 
she  flung  her  arms  about  him,  swaying  him 
to  and  fro  as  she  rocked. 

"  I  heard  you  was  sick,"  she  moaned. 

I  walked  past  them  to  the  other  side  of 
the  fire  and  sat  down  on  a  log  rolled  close 
to  the  heat ;  sat  down  slowly,  stiffly,  as  with 
difficulty.  The  wind  beat  flame  and  light 
from  me  and  left  me  in  shadow,  but  the 
glow  fell  bright  on  the  grinning  soldiers,  on 
Mammy's  ungainly  figure,  on  Sam,  thin, 
shaking,  ashy  of  hue. 

Mammy's  loving  eyes  saw  his  weakness. 
"  Is  dis  de  way  dey  treats  you  ? "  she 
demanded  indignantly.  "  Got  you  out 
hyar  in  dis  col'  win'  at  work  ?  Marse 
Willum  he  'd  had  you  in  de  cabin  tucked 
up  in  baid  wid  de  quilts  piled  up  to  yo' 
chin  an'  de  fiah  a-racin'  up  de  chimney; 
229 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

an'  hyar —  Come  'roun'  to  dis  log  an'  sit 
down." 

She  led  him,  as  if  he  needed  help,  near  to 
where  I  sat.  "  Jes  you  set  right  down  an* 
res',''  with  a  defiant  look  out  of  her  angry 
eyes  at  the  soldier  who  stood  where  he  had 
first  taken  up  position  on  the  other  side  of 
the  camp  fire. 

"  Old  woman,"  he  called,  "  we  want  that 
meat  for  supper,  and  we  want  it  quick." 

Mammy  cast  a  shrewd  glance  at  the  veni- 
son. "  'T  is  nigh  done  now." 

"  Then  cut  your  talk  short." 

Mammy  turned  an  indignant  shoulder; 
she  began  fond  interrogations  concerning 
Sam's  sickness,  his  pains,  what  remedies  had 
been  given  him.  I  slid  closer  to  him  on  the 
log. 

"  What  dey  give  you  to  take  ? "  she  de- 
manded. 

Sam  shook  his  head. 

"  What  is  you  been  doin'  ?  " 

Sam's  sickly  grin  meant  the  best  he  could ; 
but  Mammy  began  moaning  at  sight  of  it. 

"  Stop  your  fuss,"  the  soldier  called  out. 
230 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  Say  what  you  got  to  say.     You  will  have 
to  be  going  directly." 

And  I  had  not  had  a  single  chance,  not  a 
word,  no  glimmer  of  a  plan.  Was  this  all  ? 
Should  we  start  homeward  along  those  black 
roads,  the  sullen  night  closing  upon  Henry's 
life  ?  No,  no,  NO  !  I  would  wrench  from  the 
very  darkness  something,  some  hope.  What 
was  it  Mammy  was  saying  so  foolishly  at 
such  a  moment  ?  —  "  Sam,  what  is  dat  you 
got  a-bilin'  in  dat  pot  ? " 

"Coffee." 

"  Fer  de  lan's  sake !  I  ain't  had  a  drap  o' 
coffee  for  nigh  'pon  a  year,"  she  declared 
loudly. 

"  Get  a  cup  and  give  her  some,"  the  soldier 
commanded  with  a  laugh,  —  "  the  other  old 
woman  too." 

Sam  gaped.  "Miss  —  Miss  —  "he  stam- 
mered, but  Mammy  nudged  him  with  her 
elbow. 

"  Hurry  up,"  she  said  fretfully,  as  if  she 
scarcely  could  wait.     "  Thank  you,  sah  !  "  as 
Sam  stumbled  to  his  feet.     "  'T  will  suttenly 
tas'e  good  in  de  col'." 
231 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

At  the  last  word  the  soldier  shivered. 
"  The  air  from  the  river  cuts  like  a  knife," 
he  grumbled  as  he  bent  to  warm  his  hands 
over  the  coals. 

"  It  do  fer  a  fac',"  Mammy  agreed  in  a 
tone  of  warm  sympathy,  "  an'  down  hyar  de 
win'  seems  to  come  fairly  azoonin'." 

The  soldier  straightened  from  his  crouch- 
ing and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  a  few 
steps  each  way.  Sam  came  back  with  two 
tin  cups.  He  lifted  the  coffee-pot  from  the 
fire  and  filled  them.  I  took  the  one  he  gave 
me  and  clasped  my  cold  fingers  about  it  for 
warmth.  I  had  no  intention  of  drinking  it, 
but  the  hot  steam  of  the  coffee  rose  tantaliz- 
ingly  to  my  face ;  how  good  it  smelled !  I 
looked  about  us.  No  one  was  in  that  de- 
serted corner  but  ourselves,  the  stars  shone 
through  the  rifted  clouds,  and  it  was  quite 
dark.  I  pulled  my  veil  above  my  lips,  took 
one  slow  sip ;  it  was  bitter,  it  was  rank,  but 
it  seemed  delicious.  I  sipped  again  and 
again.  The  soldier  paced,  more  careless  of 
his  scrutiny. 

"  Sam,"  I  whispered  while  my  head  was 
232 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

bent  over  the  cup,  "  look  at  Mammy  as  if 
you  were  talking  to  her.  Where  is  Mr. 
Latham  ? " 

The  boy  gave  a  quick  start.  The  de- 
light of  seeing  his  mother  had  made  him 
forget. 

"  Does  you  all  know  'bout  it  ?  "  he  groaned. 

"  Answer  my  question,"  I  whispered 
sternly.  "  Where  is  he  ? " 

"  In  one  o'  de  las'  line  o'  houses." 

The  row  of  shanties  was  not  far  from  us. 
"Which  one?" 

"  Third  one  down." 

"  Sam,  do  you  —  do  you  know  what  they 
are  going  to  do  with  him  ?  " 

The  negro's  teeth  chattered.  "  Dey  tells 
me  dey  gwine  shoot  him  sho." 

"  When  ? " 

11  Ter-morrer." 

For  one  instant  I  sat  benumbed ;  my 
brain  was  barren,  my  heart  a  leaden  lump. 
"  Give  me  another  cup  ? "  I  asked,  striving 
to  gain  time.  Sam  filled  it  and  Mammy's, 
and  sat  down  again  between  us. 

"  Who  takes  him  his  supper  ?  "  I  whispered. 
233 


CALLED   TO    THE    FIELD 

"  I  dunno." 

"  Have  you  seen  him  ?  " 

"  I  took  his  dinnah  to  him." 

"  It  may  be  you;  listen.     Tell  him  —  " 

"  I  done  brought  you  some  med'cine," 
Mammy  interrupted. 

"  Is  there  any  guard  over  him  ?  " 

"  A  sojer  at  the  do'." 

"  Some  laud'num,"  Mammy  went  on,  heed- 
less of  those  whispers.  "  Ise  gvvine  tell  you 
how  to  take  it." 

I  gasped.  Here  was  a  glimmer  of  an  idea 
at  last. 

"  Sam,"  I  commanded  tersely,  "  turn  your 
face  to  Mammy.  Take  that  soldier  a  cup 
of  coffee,  pour  some  laudanum  in  it,  more 
than  you  have  ever  taken,  but  not  too  much, 
mind  you;  be  careful." 

"  Ise  gwine  tell  you  how  to  take  it," 
Mammy  declared. 

"  Give  me  a  pencil,"  I  said  quickly.  "  I  '11 
write  it.  Here,"  as  Sam  felt  in  his  pocket 
for  the  stub  he  usually  carried,  and  I  tore  off 
the  margin  of  the  paper  in  which  the  bottle 
had  been  wrapped. 

234 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

The  soldier  had  paused  by  the  fire.  "  Can 
you  read  ?  "  he  asked  surprisedly  of  Sam. 

"  She  taught  me,"  crooking  a  thumb  to- 
wards me  and  grinning  sheepishly. 

My  hands  trembled  so  that  the  words 
were  scarcely  legible.  "  Quick,  there,"  the 
soldier  commanded ;  "  't  is  time  you  were 
going."  He  turned  away.  I  thrust  the 
paper  into  Sam's  hands. 

"  Give  this  to  Mr.  Latham.     You  hear  ? " 

"To'  Gawd  —  " 

"You  are  to  do  as  I  say.  You  have  got 
to  see  him." 

"  An'  hyar  's  sumpin'  else,"  began  Mammy, 
fumbling  in  her  pocket. 

In  a  flash  I  remembered  the  knife  I  car- 
ried. I  moved  impatiently,  whirling  my 
skirts  about  Sam's  knee,  ran  my  hand  into 
my  pocket  and,  under  the  cover  of  my  dress, 
thrust  the  knife  into  his  hands.  "And  this 
also." 

A  bugle  blast  rang  out.  "  Time 's  up  ! " 
called  our  guard  and  guide. 

I  had  not  time  for  another  word. 


235 


XVII 

THE  horses,  restless  from  standing  in 
the  cold  air,  tugged  at  the  reins.  I 
pushed  up  my  veil,  set  my  feet 
against  the  dashboard,  and  leaned  back  with 
both  hands  holding  the  ribbons  taut.  We 
jolted  over  a  rut  and  went  pell-mell  through 
a  water-hole.  The  flying  horses  jerked  the 
buggy  out,  but  I  heard  the  sharp  snap  of 
breaking  leather.  We  were  near  a  hill  down 
which  led  two  roads,  and  I  pulled  into  the 
least  used  way,  sprang  out,  and  felt  with 
nervous  fingers  for  the  broken  harness. 
While  I  mended  it  with  the  hitching-strap 
we  heard  the  approach  of  rapid  hoof-beats, 
the  measured  tread  of  cavalry.  It  was  the 
belated  return  of  a  foraging  party.  I  stood 
at  the  horses'  heads,  stroked  them  and  petted 
them,  for  fear  that  their  whinnyings  might 
betray  our  whereabouts.  It  seemed  an  hour 
before  we  heard  the  sharp  commands  of  an 
236 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

officer,  bringing  his  men  into  order  at  the 
top  of  the  hill,  and  the  rapid  riding  whose 
sounds  grew  less. 

"  Dat  's  de  very  man  a-callin'  out  what  was 
at  our  house  day  befo'  yistidday,"  Mammy 
whispered  when  I  was  back  by  her  side. 
"  Ain't  gwine  fergit  his  voice  in  a  hurry;  no, 
sah." 

I,  too,  had  recognized  the  sharp,  curt 
tones.  "  Thank  the  Lord  he  was  away," 
I  murmured  devoutly.  His  manner  was 
courteous,  but  too  keen.  The  little  I  had 
been  able  to  do  might  not  have  been  ac- 
complished had  he  been  there. 

Wildly  anxious  to  meet  no  one,  to  be 
unseen,  I  urged  the  horses  along  the  county 
road.  At  the  forks  two  miles  away  I  jumped 
out  again  and  led  them  through  the  heavy 
underbrush,  beneath  the  wide-set  trees  till 
we  were  so  well  hidden  that  no  passer-by 
could  see  us. 

Mammy  had  started  to  climb  out  when 
I  did.  "  Sit  still,"  I  had  commanded  shortly. 

"Chile,  what  is  you  gwine  to  do?"  she 
asked  as  soon  as  I  was  back  on  my  seat. 
237 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  Wait." 

"What  for?" 

For  what  ?  Wait  in  wild,  blind  hope,  for 
I  had  written  on  that  yellow  margin,  "  I  will 
wait  at  the  cross-roads  till  daybreak,"  and 
trusted  Sam  and  the  man  who  read  it  for 
the  rest.  How  cold  it  was !  how  mournfully 
the  wind  whistled  about  us!  The  clouds 
fled  with  the  night  and  the  stars  shone 
above  us;  through  the  screen  of  branches 
we  could  watch  the  white,  deserted  road,  the 
four  arms  of  it  lying  like  a  cross  upon  the 
breast  of  a  country  that  was  stricken  with 
fear. 

"  Lan',"  grumbled  Mammy  when  an  hour, 
two  hours,  passed,  "  what  is  you  waitin'  in 
dis  col'  place  fer  ? " 

It  was  best  perhaps  to  let  her  know.  "  I 
am  waiting  to  see  if  Henry  —  " 

"  Did  you  go  dyar  to  git  him  loose  ? " 

Did  I  ?  Oh,  how  little  I  had  done !  How 
blindly  stupid  I  had  been,  how  badly  I  had 
planned!  Was  there  not  something  else  I 
could  have  thought  of  ?  If  it  had  only  fallen 
to  some  one  else  to  dare,  some  one  more  sen- 
238 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

sible !  And  the  hours,  the  last  hours  were 
slipping  away.  I  groaned  as  deeply  as 
Mammy  had  done. 

"  Gawd !  "  she  cried,  "  why  did  n't  you  tell 
me  ? " 

"Why?" 

"  Don't  you  know,  ain't  you  got  sense 
ernuff  to  know  dat  —  My  Gawd  !  ef  he  does, 
ef  he  does  git  erway,  dey  '11  shoot  Sam  ! " 

"  No,  no !  "  I  cried,  horror-stricken. 

"  Dey  will,  an'  you  knows  it,  an'  you  don't 
keer." 

"  Mammy ! " 

"  My  Gawd !  my  Gawd !  an'  you  done 
took  me  dyar,  an'  I  done  holp  kill  him." 

"  For  mercy's  sake  !  "  I  pleaded. 

"  You  ain't  had  no  mercy  on  me." 

"  You  knew  all  about  Henry ;  you  knew  he 
was  to  be  shot  at  noon.  Did  you  want  —  " 

"I  ain't  wantin'  nuthin'  'bout  nobody;  I 
don't  know  nuthin'  neidah.  Let  me  git  out 
o'  dis." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  "  I  cried,  as 
I  held  on  to  her  in  desperation. 

"  Ise  gwine  back." 

239 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"What?" 

"  Ise  gwine  back.  Ise  gwine  foot  it  ebery 
step.  Ise  gwine  tell  'em  Sam  didn't  know 
nuthin'  'tall  'bout  it." 

"  If  you  do  that  Sam  will  be  shot  sure." 

"  An'  ef  I  don't —  Miss  Lucy,"  wringing 
her  hands,  "how  could  you  do  it?  Sam's 
been  sickly  all  his  life.  He 's  been  in  de 
house  an'  right  erroun'  you  eber  since  you  's 
been  bohn.  'T ain't  lak  he'd  been  a  fiel' 
niggah  an'  you  skasely  knowed  him.  Ain't 
you  done  learnt  him  to  read  ?  Did  n't  you 
begin  wid  yo'  own  book  jes  as  soon  as  you 
knowed  yo'  letters  yo'se'f  ?  " 

"Oh,  Mammy,  don't,  don't!  I  did  the 
best  I  could." 

"  You  went  to  see  Sam,  sat  dyar  talkin'  to 
him,  an'  dis  night  Marse  Henry  gits  erway, 
an' Sam,  he'slef!" 

"  Mammy !  "  I  pleaded,  "  there  is  Henry's 
mother." 

"An'  dyar's  my  chile  Sam,  lak  hern." 

"And  Emily." 

"  What  you  know  but  Sam  got  a  sweet- 
heart, too  ? " 

240 


CALLED   TO   THE    FIELD 

Somehow  that  broke  the  horror  of  it, 
brought  my  scattered  senses  together.  I 
sat  still  thinking,  thinking,  while  the  horses 
tossed  their  heads  restlessly;  beyond  the 
sounds  of  their  impatience,  of  swaying 
branches  and  creaking  harness,  there  were 
no  others. 

Think  as  I  might  I  saw  but  one  thing 
now  —  to  wait,  to  keep  my  tryst  till  daylight 
paled  the  sky.  I  lifted  my  heart  in  an  agony 
of  prayer  to  God,  —  a  prayer  which  had  but 
one  refrain,  "  We  are  Thy  children,  O  God ! 
Remember  us ! " 

And  as  I  waited,  hands  clenched  on  the 
reins,  teeth  set,  the  blood  running  slower 
and  colder  in  my  veins,  all  my  body  was 
an  ache  of  cold  and  discomfort.  The  stars, 
which  were  low  in  the  east  when  we  began 
our  watch,  climbed  higher  overhead;  the 
winds  died  to  the  hush  of  midnight,  still 
there  was  no  sound  along  the  empty  road. 

Mammy's  low  moans  and  her  broken 
snatches  of  prayer  never  ceased ;  she  sat 
rocking  herself  back  and  forth  in  the 
buggy. 

16  241 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

The  horses  twisted  about,  but,  after  much 
coaxing,  settled  down  to  their  enforced  wait- 
ing, with  bent  heads  and  drooping  tails.  As 
the  long  hours  wore  on  one  of  them  suddenly 
lifted  his  head,  then  the  other;  with  heads 
turned  and  ears  pricked  back  they  stood 
motionless,  listening.  I  nudged  Mammy 
into  silence,  and  held  my  breath  as  I 
watched.  There  was  the  beat  of  a  foot- 
step ;  I  lost  it,  heard  it  again ;  and  then  out 
into  the  road  stepped  a  tall,  straight  figure. 
"  Oh,  God ! "  I  breathed  in  an  ecstasy  of 
hope ;  "  have  mercy  upon  us,"  I  cried,  for 
some  one  followed.  It  could  not  be  Henry. 

"  De  Ian' !  de  lan's  sake  !  "  Mammy's 
strident  cry  rang  out  on  the  stillness  of  the 
night.  A  low  laugh  from  the  road  sent  the 
blood  to  my  heart. 

"  Lucy,  where  are  you  ?  " 

"  Here,  here ! "  I  sprang  down,  ran  to 
him,  caught  his  hands  and  clung  to  them, 
laughing  hysterically.  Mammy  was  crying 
softly  over  Sam. 

We  waited  but  a  second  while  he  told  of 
sleeping  sentinels,  scaled  embankments,  and 

242 


flight.  "  Get  the  horses  back  in  the  road. 
Where  are  they?"  Henry  ran  to  their 
heads,  backed  them  out  of  their  hiding- 
place,  and  we  looked  at  each  other  for  half 
a  breath's  space  in  dismay.  What  should 
we  do,  the  four  of  us  ? 

"  Mammy,  get  in,"  I  commanded.  "  Sam, 
ride  one  of  the  horses ;  Molly  is  the  strongest, 
the  one  nearest  you."  I  jumped  in,  sat  down 
in  Mammy's  lap,  picked  up  the  reins  and 
handed  them  to  Henry. 

Midnight  was  two  hours  past.  We  must 
be  home  before  the  first  streak  of  dawn.  No 
one,  not  even  our  nearest  neighbor,  must 
know  of  that  mad  flight.  On  the  horses 
raced,  Henry  urging  them.  We  drew  rein 
to  listen  once  or  twice,  but  no  sound  of  pur- 
suit came  on  the  cold  air;  down  the  long 
road,  firm  as  clay  is  before  the  frost  works 
it  into  roughness ;  up  hill  and  down  ;  through 
sandy  bottoms,  splashing  over  streams ;  whirl- 
ing sharply  around  the  empty  storehouse  at 
The  Ordinary ;  and  at  last,  the  sound  of  our 
own  gate  clanging  behind  us,  with  whirling 
wheels  and  rapid  hoof-beats,  with  the  cape 
243 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

of  Sam's  old  army  coat  blown  straight  be- 
hind him,  we  neared  the  house.  Lights 
streamed  from  the  windows,  the  door  was 
flung  wide  to  the  bitter  night  My  shout 
rang  and  echoed  through  the  stillness  of  the 
dawn.  "  Safe ! "  I  cried.  "  They  are  safe ! " 


244 


XVIII 

THEY  were  safe  only  so  far,  but  in 
the  very  madness  of  delight  they 
seemed  to  have  lost  their  senses ; 
and  a  hubbub  of  cries,  exclamations,  and 
thanksgivings  drowned  every  word  of  warn- 
ing I  tried  to  speak.  Already  the  sunrise 
flushed  the  sky.  We  knew  that  as  soon  as 
their  horses  could  bring  the  soldiers  that 
day  to  our  gate  they  would  be  there,  that 
our  house  would  be  searched  —  cranny  and 
crevice,  barn  and  corn-house,  and  every  pos- 
sible hiding-place.  Nothing  would  belate 
them  but  the  hour  of  their  discovery,  and 
that  must  have  already  come. 

"  You  must  hide,"  I  begged ;  "  you  must 
not  delay  a  moment  longer.  Run ! "  for 
the  way  they  must  take  to  the  woods  lay 
straight  across  the  open  fields,  and  any  pur- 
suer down  the  lane  could  spy  them.  "  Sam 
knows  the  way  to  the  old  cabin  in  the 
245 


pines ;  you  must  stay  there  till  night ;  we 
will  send  you  something  to  eat  —  if  we  can. 
At  night  you  must  be  off.  Let  him  go, 
Emily  !  Father,  make  her." 

Mammy  dragged  Sam  up  from  before  the 
fire,  where  he  knelt  warming  his  long,  thin 
fingers. 

"  Go  'long !  Don't  you  heah  ?  Ain't  you 
got  no  sense  ?  " 

"  Come,  Henry,  come  !  "  I  heard  father's 
voice  as  he  called  warning  and  heeding  after 
them,  but  before  they  were  out  of  sight  I 
sank  down  in  my  chair.  From  door  and 
window  the  household  watched,  watched  the 
lane  and  them ;  but  my  part  was  done.  I 
leaned  so  close  to  the  heat  that  my  cheek 
was  fairly  blistered,  but  the  very  marrow  of 
my  bones  seemed  turned  to  ice.  The  voices 
in  the  hall  seemed  to  come  from  long  dis- 
tances. The  rest  I  scarcely  remember, — 
the  ague  which  shook  me,  the  fever  which 
ran  high  after  it.  They  got  me  to  bed  in 
the  chamber,  and  there  I  lay  when  some  few 
hours  later  the  clatter  in  the  lane  told  that 
pursuit  was  near.  I  heard  the  uproar,  and 
246 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

father's  voice  in  sharper  and  sharper  remon- 
strances ;  but  in  spite  of  all  he  could  say,  the 
chamber  door  was  pushed  open,  a  strong,  im- 
patient footstep  rang  on  the  bare  floor. 

I  opened  my  eyes.  There  stood  the 
captain,  embarrassed,  angry,  yet  persistent. 
"  You  will  pardon  me  —  I  did  not  know  —  '' 
he  stammered. 

"  I  told  you  my  daughter  was  here,  ill  ! " 
father  blazed. 

"  But  —  "  He  hesitated.  It  was  easy  to 
understand.  The  captain  had  not  believed 
the  tale  of  my  being  abed,  and  had  pushed 
his  way  in.  Emily  leaned  against  the  bed 
looking  like  a  ruffled  and  frightened  bird ; 
Mammy  stood  in  the  door,  her  arms  akimbo, 
her  eyes  flashing;  father,  near  me,  watched 
with  scorn  and  hatred  and  impotent  rage 
showing  in  every  line  of  his  face,  every  flash 
of  his  eyes. 

The  captain  wrathfully  eyed  my  red  face. 
"You  visited  the  camp  yesterday,"  he  stated 
authoritatively. 

I  made  a  gesture  of  assent. 

"  And  you  assisted  the  spy  we  had  cap- 
247 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

tured  to  escape,"  he  accused  as  sternly  as  he 
had  at  first  spoken. 

I  only  looked  at  him  with  wide-open  eyes 
and  prayed  that  Emily  would  not  speak. 

"  And  the  negro  boy  ?  " 

"  Was  he  a  pris'nah  too  ?  "  It  was  Mammy's 
voice. 

"  We  must  search  your  house." 

"  Do  so,"  said  father,  haughtily. 

The  captain  turned,  and  went  out ;  we 
heard  the  search  from  room  to  room.  The 
officer  came  again  into  the  chamber.  "  You 
have  them  in  hiding  somewhere  near,"  he 
accused.  "  The  spy  —  " 

Emily  made  a  step  nearer  him.  "  He  was 
no  spy ;  you  know  it,"  she  vowed  hotly. 

"  He  was.  And  he  was  here  a  night  and 
day  before  we  captured  him." 

"  To  see  me." 

The  captain  gave  her  a  searching  look. 
"We  caught  him  —  " 

"  As  he  went  to  see  his  mother.     I  have 

heard  how  you  took  him.     A  brave  thing  to 

do !    six  against  one,  hiding  all   of   you  on 

the  hillside  till  he  was  well  between  you ! " 

248 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

Emily  stood  as  straight  as  the  captain  held 
himself,  and  gave  him  angry  glance  for  angry 
glance. 

"  His  mother  has  the  misfortune  of  living 
near  to  your  encampment,"  added  father, 
ironically. 

"  But  for  your  daughter's  interference  he 
would  have  been  shot  this  morning,"  blurted 
the  captain,  stung  into  brutality. 

Emily  reeled  back  against  the  bed.  She 
had  never  heard  of  Henry's  extremity  of 
danger. 

"  Are  you  not  glad  that  it  has  not  been 
done,  that  he  is  alive,  well  ?  "  I  cried  as  I 
looked  directly  into  the  officer's  eyes ;  and  in 
that  curious  way  in  which  I  understood  him, 
through  and  through,  though  he  represented 
to  me  a  force  I  hated,  and  I  to  him  a  duty  he 
did  not  desire,  I  read  his  thought. 

"  I  am  accountable,"  he  said  shortly. 

"  For  doing  your  duty ;  you  have  done  it." 

He  looked  at  me,  a  sudden  flame  of  anger 
in  his  eyes.     "  Your  visit  to  camp  has  not 
been  beneficial ;  it  might  not  be  safe  to  re- 
peat it,"  he  added  significantly. 
249 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  I  pray  never  to  have  need  to,  never  to 
see  it  again ! "  I  cried  vehemently  as  he  strode 
out  of  the  room. 

In  the  hall  he  came  face  to  face  with 
Mammy.  "  If  that  boy  of  yours  is  ever 
caught,  he  will  be  shot  at  sight." 

Mammy  was  insolent  in  her  joy.  "Yes, 
sah,"  she  said  with  treacherous  courtesy. 
"  Yes,  sah  ;  but  you  's  got  to  cotch  him  fus'." 

That  night  a  little  cavalcade  took  its  way 
from  our  house.  There  was  Henry,  there 
was  Sam  ;  it  was  not  safe  for  the  boy  to  stay 
in  the  county,  and  he  was  wild  to  follow 
Henry  to  the  war,  so  we  let  him  go.  And 
there  was  father !  In  the  few  words  he  al- 
ways used  when  his  feeling  was  intense  he 
announced  just  before  nightfall  that  he  was 
going.  He  was  impelled,  he  said ;  every 
drop  of  blood  within  him  was  stirred.  To 
remain  inactive  was  impossible.  He  could 
ride  as  straight  and  as  long,  sit  as  true  and 
aim  as  well  as  any  man,  and  every  man  was 
needed.  He  went. 


250 


XIX 

EMILY  was  to  stay  with  me,  but  in  a 
few  days  a  carriage  came  for  her  from 
Middlesex;  her  mother  was  ill,  and 
her  aunt  had  sent  for  her.  We  were  left 
alone.  Worst  of  all,  that  visit  to  the  fort  had 
made  us  a  marked  people;  and  the  well- 
stocked  farm  offered  excellent  foraging 
ground.  Scantiness  of  food  we  had  never 
imagined,  but  with  a  smokehouse  from  whose 
rafters  hung  no  meat,  with  an  empty  corn- 
crib,  with  no  cabbages  piled  and  covered  in 
the  garden,  with  no  potatoes  in  the  small 
cellar  under  the  kitchen  floor,  we  were  face 
to  face  with  want  before  we  divined  its 
meaning. 

With  the  lack  of  food  came  also  that  of 
clothing.  I  owned  a  plaid  silk,  a  flowered 
dimity,  —  the  dresses  Mammy  had  saved, — 
and  the  mousseline  I  wore  that  day.  Nor 
would  the  wrist-big  rolls  of  Confederate  bills 
251 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

in  father's  drawer  buy  one  yard  of  calico, — 
for  the  shelves  of  the  country  stores  were 
empty.  For  those  few  things  which  could 
be  bought,  it  took  ever  more  and  more  of 
those  bills,  with  higher  and  higher  numbers, 
until  even  the  soldiers  who  rifled  us  laughed 
when  they  wrenched  open  the  drawer  and 
saw  them,  and  they  left  them  undisturbed. 
They  well  knew  that  the  money  which  was 
of  value  was  in  their  pockets,  not  in  ours. 

But  there  is  no  excuse  for  hugging  one's 
misery  forever  to  heart.  I  did  not  cherish 
mine.  Besides,  I  think  that  with  every  heavy 
fall  of  fate  my  courage  mounted  higher.  I 
lived  alone  where  I  had  thought  it  impossi- 
ble —  or  would  have  thought  it  so,  had  such 
a  wild  idea  once  crossed  my  brain  —  to  stay 
one  night  unguarded.  I  faced  danger  daily, 
lived  in  an  expectancy  of  it,  and  was  so  im- 
bued with  constant  fear  that,  come  what 
might,  I  felt  no  sudden  shock. 

The  want  of  clothes,  however,  was  press- 
ing. Winter  was  at  hand  and  the  days  were 
already  bitter.  My  mousseline,  spite  of  its 
patches,  went  to  rags  upon  my  back.  I 
252 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

could  not  go  clad  in  thin  dimity  or  in  silk, 
and  even  had  I  donned  them,  their  service 
would  have  been  short-lived. 

"  Miss  Nancy,"  I  complained,  on  one  of 
my  few  visits  to  the  small  house  on  the 
Dragon,  "  I  am  literally  going  to  rags."  I 
pointed  to  my  elbows.  "  What  shall  I  do  ?  " 

I  had  made  myself  quite  comfortable  be- 
fore her  hearth.  The  clear  and  cold  winter's 
day  and  the  long  walk  had  set  my  blood 
a-dancing.  It  was  more  in  merriment  than 
dismay  that  I  asked,  for  with  Miss  Nancy, 
somehow,  people  were  apt  to  tell  just  what 
they  felt  and  thought,  to  speak  truth  instead 
of  idle  pleasantries.  Her  remoteness  set  her 
apart  from  the  current  of  affairs,  but  left  her 
free  to  fathom  its  depths. 

She  sat  now  across  from  me,  her  hands 
folded  in  her  lap,  her  thin,  bare  arms  show- 
ing through  the  folds  of  the  shawl,  the  keen, 
dark  eyes  in  her  wrinkled  face  gleaming  with 
kind  anxiety.  The  gay  stripes  of  her  home- 
woven  carpet  showed  warm  on  the  floor,  the 
sunken  and  uneven  hearth  was  freshly  red- 
dened, the  red  and  yellow  flames  raced  up 
253 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

the  rough,  black  chimney ;  the  cup  and 
saucer  I  had  given  her,  an  old  clock,  and  a 
brass  candlestick  gleamed  on  the  mantel- 
shelf. Small  as  was  the  room  crowded  with 
the  loom,  simple  as  were  its  furnishings,  I 
felt  always  when  there  like  cuddling  down 
in  peace,  abiding  in  comfort,  coming  to  a 
breathing-place  —  oh  !  I  cannot  express  it, 
but  the  place  —  all  of  it  —  breathed  of  un- 
broken calm ;  one  warmed  one's  self  in  it  as 
if  it  were  sunshine. 

Miss  Nancy  leaned  toward  me  and  spoke 
hesitantly  :  "  Have  you  any  thread  ?  " 

"  Cotton  is  the  only  thing  we  have  left,"  I 
answered,  laughing  at  the  admission. 

"  If  you  could  dye  it  —  but  it  would  ruin 
your  hands,"  —  in  delicate  deprecation. 

"  What  does  that  matter  ?  "  I  asked  scorn- 
fully. 

"  Make  Maria  do  it ;  she  knows  how,  I 
expect."  Miss  Nancy  was  all  energy  now. 
"If  she  would,  I  could  weave  it  and  —  oh, 
dear  me!  that  would  never  do.  Cotton 
homespun!  You  could  never  wear  it." 

"  Try  me,  I  should  be  prouder  of  it  than 
254 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

of  anything  I  ever  had.  What  must  I  do? 
Tell  me." 

"  Oh,  dear  me ! "  Miss  Nancy  repeated  in 
a  quiver  of  excitement.  "  Why  did  n't  we 
think  of  it  before?  and  you  —  poor  child, 
that  dress  is  falling  off  your  back.  I  can 
weave  'em  downright  pretty,  too.  Brown, 
now,  that  would  be  so  becoming  to  you ;  and 
you  could  get  the  coloring  for  that  so  easy." 

"  Yes,"  in  answer  to  my  demand  as  to  how 
it  should  be  done,  "  easy  enough.  Get  an 
old  iron  pot,"  she  put  the  skinny  forefinger 
of  one  hand  into  the  palm  of  the  other,  beat- 
ing it  impressively  as  she  talked,  "  one  you 
don't  want  to  use  again,  —  the  dye  ruins  it, 
you  know,  —  and  get  all  the  little  pieces,  the 
scraps  of  old  iron  you  can  find  —  " 

"  How  much  ?  "  I  interrupted. 

"  Oh,  Maria  will  know.  I  '11  be  bound  she 
does.  If  she  does  n't  I  '11  come  and  show  you 
myself.  Put  the  iron  scraps  in  the  pot  and 
some  apple-bark — oh!  a  double  handful  — 
and  fill  it  with  water,  and  start  a  low  fire 
under  it.  Just  keep  it  slow  and  sure,  boil- 
ing right  along  three  or  four  hours,  and  then 
255 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

there  's  your  dye.  A  pretty  brown  it  makes 
too,  it  will  just  match  your  hair;  and  I'll 
weave  a  stripe,  just  a  thread  of  white  through 
it.  La,  child,  you  '11  look  as  sweet  as  a  peach 
in  it." 

I  went  home  with  Miss  Nancy's  directions 
ringing  in  my  ears,  and  I  was  almost  as  en- 
thusiastic as  she  had  been  ;  I  stopped  at  the 
kitchen  door  to  tell  Mammy  of  them.  There 
she  sat  in  a  low  chair  drawn  close  before  the 
hearth,  bending  over  a  skillet  whose  contents 
were  crackling  from  the  heat  of  the  red- 
hot  embers  piled  under  it.  She  stirred  the 
browning  stuff  anxiously,  and  the  savory 
smell  of  it  filled  the  air. 

"What  is  it? "  I  asked,  coming  close  and 
sniffing  delightedly. 

"  'T  was  wheat ;  de  Lawd  only  knows  what 
it 's  gwine  tuhn  out  to  be.  Ise  tryin'  to 
make  sumpin'  I  heard  of  de  uddah  day,"  she 
explained,  as  I  put  my  hand  on  her  shoulder 
and  leaned  over  to  watch.  "  Honey,  it  seems 
to  me  if  I  jes  had  one  cup  o'  coffee  I  'd  be 
ready  fer  Kingdom-come.  It  seems  to  me  I  'd 
be  willin'  to  go  clean  to  de  camp  to  git  it." 
256 


CALLED   TO    THE    FIELD 

"  Well,  I  would  n't,  then,"  I  said  tersely. 
"  Besides  —  " 

"  Dyar  ain't  no  besides,  an'  I  knows  it,  but 
Ise  jes  honin'  fer  it ;  you  'member  how  it 
smelled  dat  day  ?  " 

"  This  smells  pretty  good,"  I  declared 
valiantly. 

"  Smells !  dat  ain't  de  thing,  but  how  is  it 
gwine  tas'e  ?  De  Lawd,  dey  say  He  know 
eberything  an'  how  to  do  eberything,  an' 
dat 's  true,  it 's  bleeged  to  be  true.  But  how 
come  He  lef  anything  you  cyarnt  do  widout 
lak  coffee  jes  to  grow  in  one  little  spot  an' 
you  have  to  sen'  an'  sen'  to  git  it,  it  beats 
me.  Miss  Lucy,  you  look  hyar !  Ef  dem 
sojers  would  leab  us  erlone,  dyar  ain't  nuthin' 
we  'd  be  in  need  of.  Dyar 's  de  corn  will 
grow  right  hyar  to  mek  all  de  meal  you 
want,  and  de  wheat  to  mek  all  de  flour. 
Dyar 's  de  gyarden ;  dyar 's  chickens  an' 
tukkys  an'  ducks  an'  sheep  an'  cows  —  least- 
ways dey  was  —  Ise  talkin'  'bout  what  we're 
been  used  to,  not  dese  Gawd-forsaken  days ; 
an*  you  can  raise  de  cane  to  mek  de  sorghum 
ef  you  cyarnt  get  de  sugar.  Dyar  's  ebery- 
17  257 


CALLED   TO   THE    FIELD 

thing  in  Gawd's  worT  you  want  'ceppin'  'tis 
dat  little  brown  berry  what  look  so  wuthless 
in  yo'  han'  an'  tas'e  so  good  in  yo'  mouf.  De 
Lawd  He  knows  bes',  I  'spose,  but  aftah  He 
gin  us  all  dat  why  He  did  n't  put  de  coffee 
bush  in  de  fence  cornder,  same  lak  chinca- 
pins,  beats  me.  S'pose  He  thought  't  would 
'a'  been  too  much  lak  Paradise  here  below  an' 
we  nebbah  would  be  willin'  to  leab  it — um 
—  hum  !  "  Mammy's  plaint  grew  into  a  rhap- 
sody. She  rocked  herself  gently,  then  leaned 
forward  to  give  the  crackling  wheat  a  fresh 
stir. 

"  Dis  thing,"  she  said  contemptuously  as  a 
hot  grain  flew  up  with  the  force  of  its  burst- 
ing and  hit  her  hand,  "  dis  thing  is  what  dat 
Oakleigh  niggah  tole  me  de  uddah  day  at  De 
O'n'ry  dat  dey  is  usin'.  I  '11  try  it  dis  once. 
It  might  look  sort  o'  lak  de  real  stuff  an' 
'mind  you  of  it  anyhow.  Ise  gwine  see  ef 
you  can  stummick  it  fer  suppah." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  have  for  supper 
anyhc^v  ?  "  I  asked  childishly.  The  frosty  air 
had  made  me  hungry  enough  to  eat  anything. 

Mammy's  face  cleared  to  a  look  of  intense 
258 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

satisfaction.  "  Batter-braid  !  Dick  done  foim' 
a  nes'  in  de  foddah  stack  wid  two  aigs  in  it. 
He  lef  one  to  'courage  de  hen  what 's  layin' 
dyar,  an'  he  brung  me  one.  An',  Miss  Lucy," 
as  if  it  were  a  secret  too  good  to  keep,  "  Ise 
done  churned  while  you  was  down  to  Miss 
Nancy's,  an'  dyar  's  buttah  —  yas  'm,  fresh 
buttah." 

"  Is  the  bread  nearly  done  ?  " 

"  La !  jes  lissen."  Mammy  was  delighted, 
and  for  the  time  being  the  questions  I  had 
stopped  to  ask  were  forgotten  ;  but  they  were 
remembered  in  due  time. 

A  useless  old  kettle,  whose  days  for  sor- 
ghum boiling  were  ended,  was  found  and  car- 
ried out  behind  the  woodpile,  where  chips 
were  plentiful.  Dick  and  I  hunted  high  and 
low  for  iron  scraps. 

"  Lan's  sakes !  "  Mammy  cried  when  she 
saw  me  one  morning  poking  about  behind 
the  kitchen.  "  Go  'long,  Miss  Lucy,  you  '11 
rake  dis  place  lak  a  harrow  does  de  gyarden. 
You  's  got  ernuff  iron  for  two  bilin's  already. 
Tell  Dick  to  fotch  me  some  watah  from  de 
spring,  Ise  got  de  apple-bark  all  ready." 
259 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

We  started  the  slow  fire  under  the  kettle, 
proportioned  bark  and  iron  duly,  rilled  the 
pot  to  the  rim,  and  then  Mammy  began  to 
look  anxious.  "  Ise  got  some  wuk  to  do,  an' 
Dick  he  ought  to  go  'long  to  de  fiel'  to  help 
'Zekiel." 

"  All  right !  Go  along  both  of  you.  I  will 
stay  here  and  attend  to  the  fire." 

"  You  're  sho  you  won't  mind,  honey  ? 
Ain't  you  got  sumpin'  else  you  wants  to  do  ?  " 

"  Not  a  thing." 

"  Well,  jes  keep  it  a-bilin',  none  too  fas'  an' 
none  too  slow,  jes  steady  lak,  an'  stir  it  wid  a 
stick  ebery  now  an'  den." 

I  sat  down  on  an  old  scarred  chopping- 
log,  gathered  the  big  chips  and  the  little 
chips  from  far  and  near,  and  fed  the  clear, 
steady  fire.  The  pungent  smell  of  it  rose 
into  the  still  morning  air.  The  sun,  climb- 
ing higher,  streamed  down  on  me  where  I 
sat  lazily  and  contentedly,  on  the  fields  be- 
hind the  house,  the  woodpile,  the  kitchen, 
Mammy's  cabin,  and  the  house ;  I  pushed 
back  my  bonnet  to  look  toward  it.  The 
doors  of  the  hall,  back  and  front,  were  wide- 
260 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

open,  and  the  ribbon  of  the  lane  lay  white 
between  the  brown  corn-furrows.  Crows 
were  calling  overhead,  and  some  of  the  few 
fowls  we  had  left  to  us  came  clucking  with 
nervous,  sidelong  glances  to  my  feet. 

I  clasped  my  hands  around  my  knees  and 
leaned  back,  watching  the  thin  curl  of  smoke 
above  the  chimney  top.  As  I  sat  there,  idly, 
I  heard  the  baying  of  hounds,  faint  at  first, 
but  gradually  louder,  and  many  voices.  The 
sounds  came  from  the  thick  woods  beyond 
us.  I  sprang  to  my  feet  as  a  reddish  streak 
flashed  across  the  fields;  the  hounds  behind 
raced  in  full  cry,  and  close  at  their  heels 
pounded  a  squad  of  our  men,  gray-clad,  men 
from  a  regiment  then  recruiting  across  the 
Dragon.  The  flight  of  the  fox,  the  baying 
dogs,  running  with  stretched  out  bodies  and 
noses  close  to  the  ground,  were  as  exhilarat- 
ing as  the  frosty  morning.  I  turned  to  watch 
the  course  the  fox  took ;  for  an  instant  my 
glance  fell  through  the  hall  on  the  lane  be- 
yond, —  straight  out  from  the  pines  rode  a 
squad  of  blue ! 

I  wrenched  my  sun-bonnet  from  my  head, 
261 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

waved  it  at  the  hunters;  they  thought  it 
a  cheer,  and  waved  their  hats.  I  raced  to  the 
house,  shrieking  for  Mammy  to  follow  as 
I  fled. 

"  Bar  the  door ! "  We  slammed  it  shut 
and  slipped  the  bar  into  its  hasps. 

We  ran  to  the  other,  and  as  we  flung  it  to 
we  heard  a  whirlwind  of  hoof-beats  in  the 
back  yard,  a  yell  splitting  the  air  like  thun- 
der, and  the  "  rip,  rip "  of  bullets  pattering 
against  the  house.  In  the  hall  we  pressed 
ourselves  close  against  the  partition  walls. 
A  shower  of  glass  rattled  from  the  chamber 
window  to  the  floor;  groans  and  yells  en- 
tangled ;  and  then,  as  suddenly  as  a  sharp 
storm  of  summer  rolls  away,  —  hoof-beats, 
silence. 

The  deadly  quiet  was  unbearable.  I  must 
see  outside.  Huddling  together  we  crept 
into  the  chamber.  Through  the  shattered 
panes  the  daylight  streamed,  and  down  the 
lane  fled  the  blue,  the  gray  in  pursuit. 

"  Hurrah !  "  I  cried  insanely,  "  hurrah  !  " 

"  Hush,  hush !  dyar  mought  be  somebody 
out  dyar." 

262 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

I  had  not  even  thought  of  it. 

We  ran  out,  Mammy  first.  "  Gawd-a- 
mighty ! "  she  cried,  as  she  shrank  back 
against  the  door. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  I  peered  fearfully  over 
her  shoulder.  There,  under  the  chamber 
window,  with  face  buried  in  the  long  violet 
leaves,  lay  a  figure  crumpled  as  he  had 
fallen.  Trembling,  we  crept  toward  him. 
I  leaned  over,  put  my  hand  on  his  head, 
too  dazed  for  consciousness.  I  turned 
the  face  upward,  and  gave  one  wild  shriek: 
"  Robert !  " 


263 


XX 

WHEN  I  opened  my  eyes  I  lay  for 
an  instant  looking  up  into  the  blue. 
The  violet  leaves  rubbed  my  cheek. 
I  turned  my  head  feebly  and  a  purple  bud 
peered  into  my  eyes.  "  The  violets  are 
about  to  bloom,"  I  opened  my  lips  to  say, 
when  a  spatter  of  blood  on  the  green  leaves 
caught  my  glance.  I  remembered.  "  Is  he 
dead  ?  "  I  gasped. 

"  He  ain't  no  nigher  daid  dan  you  has 
been,"  snapped  Mammy,  though  the  tears 
were  streaming  down  her  cheeks. 

"  Where  is  he  ?  "  I  asked  as  I  stumbled  to 
my  feet. 

"  In  de  chambah." 

I  never  asked  who  carried  him  there. 
'Zekiel  and  Dick  had  been  hiding  in  the 
barn  and  ran  up  to  the  house  as  we  came 
out;  they  had  lifted  Robert  into  the  room 
and  left  Mammy  with  me.  She  threw  her 
264 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

arms  around  me  as  I  tottered,  swept  me 
from  my  feet  as  if  I  had  been  a  child,  and 
carried  me  straight  into  the  room. 

"  Dyar,  you  can  see  fer  yo'se'f ; "  she  de- 
clared as  she  tumbled  me  down  on  the  wide 
tester  bed. 

Robert  lay  on  the  other  side,  his  eyes  were 
open,  conscious.  "  Lucy  ! "  he  said  faintly, 
his  hand  groping  along  the  counterpane  for 
mine. 

"  Run  fer  Miss  Nancy,"  Mammy  whispered 
to  Dick.  "  Run  as  if  de  Ole  Scratch  was 
behin'  you  an'  you  was  plumb  distracted  yo'- 
se'f. Ain't  a  soul  hyar  what  knows  what  to 
do.  Lemme  see,  Marse  Robert,  don't  you 
want  me  to  tek  yo'  coat  off,  to  do  sumpin',  to 
try  an'  fin'  whar  you  is  hunt?  You  might  be 
a-bleedin'  to  death  right  now." 

Every  spark  of  fear  I  had,  fled  from  me ; 
I  rolled  over  and  was  on  my  feet  before  the 
words  left  her  mouth.  "  We  must  get  his 
coat  off ! "  I  cried,  but  my  hands  trembled 
too  much  for  service.  It  was  Maria  and 
'Zekiel  who  stripped  Robert  to  his  shirt.  I 
clenched  the  bedpost  as  I  saw  the  great 
265 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

blood-stain  there  on  the  left  side,  but  it 
was  high  up,  close  to  the  shoulder,  thank 
God !  and  there  was  no  fresh  flowing  widen- 
ing the  sinister  stain,  only  that  one  ominous 
place  which  we  dared  not  touch  for  fear  the 
tearing  of  the  linen  from  the  wound  might 
start  the  flow  afresh.  We  waited,  the  minutes 
dragging  like  hours,  for  Miss  Nancy's  help. 
How  deftly  she  gave  it  when  at  last  she  had 
come !  How  firm  and  skilful  were  her  small, 
wrinkled  hands !  She  looked  at  me  when 
she  had  nearly  finished  and  sent  me  from 
the  room. 

"  It 's  all  right,  all  right,  nothing  to  hurt 
him  seriously,"  she  whispered  as  she  pushed 
me  gently  outside  the  door.  "  Sit  down  on 
the  step  a  minute  —  no,  the  back  door.  I 
will  be  there  directly.  Maria  will  help  me." 

I  obeyed.  The  sun  had  climbed  but  two 
hours  higher  since  I  watched  it  idly  from  the 
woodpile,  and  stood  now  at  his  zenith.  The 
warm  and  tender  sunshine  of  a  mild  winter's 
day  brooded  over  fields  and  yard  and  house  ; 
above  the  chimneys  floated  thin  curls  of 
smoke  —  the  banners  of  peace  ;  I  leaned  my 
266 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

head  against  the  door-frame  as  house  and 
yard  whirled  before  my  vision. 

"  Lucy  !  "  —  I  had  not  heard  Miss  Nancy's 
light  step  —  "  come  here  !  "  She  nodded  to 
the  bed  where  Robert  lay  peacefully  asleep. 
"  He  's  all  right,"  she  repeated ;  "  bad  place 
in  his  shoulder,  but  it  is  only  a  flesh  wound  ; 
it  will  heal  all  right;  a  little  time  and  care, 
that 's  all.  Child,  do  you  know  what  saved 
his  life?  that  button  on  his  coat,  that  one 
little  button."  I  felt  her  clutch  on  my 
shoulder  and  saw  her  eyes  dilate.  "  A 
bullet  struck  there  and  the  blow  over  his 
heart  made  him  unconscious ;  then  there 's 
the  other  wound,  you  know." 

"  He  will  live !  "  I  breathed  ecstatically. 

"  There  is  no  reason  on  earth  why  he 
should  n't,  but  —  "  Miss  Nancy  was  standing 
near  the  middle  of  the  room,  the  wind  blew 
through  the  shattered  panes,  the  broken 
glass  littered  the  floor,  the  fire  was  dead  on 
the  hearth.  "  Come  out  into  the  hall,"  she 
whispered. 

We  stepped  out  into  the  blaze  of  the  noon 
sunshine  along   the  white-pine   floor.     The 
267 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

gate  was  flung  wide  open,  the  grass  torn 
and  trampled;  the  fields  shimmered  in  the 
warmth,  and  beyond  stood  the  solemn  guard 
of  the  pines.  There  she  told  me  what  must 
be  done.  Robert  must  be  removed  to  her 
house.  To  allow  him  to  remain  here  would 
be  to  risk  captivity,  and  that  in  his  condition 
might  mean  the  worst ;  for  some  time  to 
come  he  would  need  the  most  careful  atten- 
tion, and  Miss  Nancy  could  give  it.  I  was 
convinced,  and  under  her  brisk  directions  we 
got  him  somehow  —  I  cannot  tell  it  clearly, 
it  runs  together  with  a  blur  of  horror  in  my 
mind  —  that  very  day,  down  to  the  security 
of  that  refuge.  Nor  can  I  well  recall  the 
first  few  days  that  followed,  but  there  came 
one  when  Miss  Nancy  brusquely  set  before 
me  another  duty:  Robert  was  safe  on  the 
road  to  recovery;  I  must  go  home  and  leave 
her  to  tend  him. 

It  was  absurd,  and  I  told  her  so  in  no 
stinted  terms,  but  she  stood  firm. 

"  There  is  nothing  done  in  this  world  but 
everybody  knows  it ;  seems  so  anyhow.  If 
you  stay  here  much  longer,  people  will  hear 
268 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

you  are  not  at  home,  and  then  they  will 
want  to  know  why  —  and  they  will  find  out. 
Next  thing  it  will  be  known  at  the  fort. 
Think  they  could  n't  find  their  way  down 
here  ?  Lord !  they  could  if  they  were  set 
on  it;  don't  you  fool  yourself.  There's  just 
one  thing  to  do  —  to  keep  them  from  want- 
ing to.  You  Ve  got  to  go  back  home  and 
live  right  along  as  if  nothing  at  all  had 
happened ;  if  you  have  n't  got  the  courage 
for  that  —  " 

I  flared  out  at  that.  Would  they  never  be 
done  with  their  cant  of  it  ?  was  I  to  hear  it 
on  every  side  ?  Had  I  not  shown  some 
strength  ? 

"  Never  mind,  never  mind,"  Miss  Nancy 
soothed.  "  But  we  must  take  care  of  Robert 
now.  He  is  getting  along  all  right ;  no 
fever,  not  a  bit  of  it.  I  can  attend  to  his 
wounds  as  well  as  any  doctor  could.  It 's 
a  good  thing  people  do  know  a  little  about 
nursing,  when  the  only  doctor  left  in  the 
county  is  old  Dr.  Carnes,  and  he  's  staying 
home  just  because  he  is  too  old  to  go  ;  he  's 
almost  too  feeble  to  get  around  anyway. 
269 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

Lord  only  knows  what  would  happen  if 
somebody  were  to  be  taken  really  ill  and 
beyond  our  little  remedies. 

"  Feels  nice  to  be  out  in  the  fresh  air, 
doesn't  it?" 

We  had  come  out  to  the  door  and  stood 
looking  at  the  small  yard,  the  box-hedges, 
the  leafless  shrubs.  In  the  room  we  had 
left,  Robert  lay  asleep  on  a  bed  which  had 
been  put  up  where  the  loom  used  to  stand ; 
the  sunshine  fell  in  a  beam  of  warmth  across 
his  feet,  and  the  look  of  his  face  even  in  his 
sleep  was  absurdly  happy. 

Miss  Nancy  stood  for  a  second  holding 
her  shawl  about  her  shoulders,  her  head 
lifted,  an  intent  but  far-away  look  in  her 
eyes. 

"  I  will  get  Molly  to  look  after  him,"  she 
declared  presently ;  "  I  am  going  to  see  if 
there  are  any  fresh  eggs.  Maybe  Robert 
could  eat  one.  How  does  he  like  them 
cooked  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  What !  And  married  two  years  and  a 
half ! " 

270 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  I  have  been  married  seven  months,"  I 
asserted. 

"  Now  did  you  ever !  "  Miss  Nancy  laughed, 
as  she  led  the  way  down  the  path  to  the  low, 
sod-covered  hen-house.  "  Wait !  "  She  lifted 
her  skirt  daintily,  and  stepped  across  the  log 
below  the  doorway.  "  Six  !  "  triumphantly. 
"  The  hens  must  know  I  have  company.  I 
will  carry  these  to  the  house  and  come 
back." 

I  waited  leaning  against  the  sod,  where  the 
grass  showed  a  spear  of  green  here  and  there, 
and  in  the  intense  silence  I  could  hear  the 
rush  of  the  Dragon  at  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
and  the  monotone  of  the  wind  in  the  great 
forest. 

Miss  Nancy  came  back  slowly  as  if  in 
deep  thought.  Her  thin  wrinkled  hands 
were  clasped  across  the  shawl  folded  on  her 
breast,  her  straggling  gray  hair  blew  gently 
about  her  forehead. 

"  Let 's  go  this  way."     She  put  one  small 

hand  on  my  arm  and  turned  me   toward  a 

path   leading   down   the   hillside ;   we   went 

silently   till   our   feet   were    stayed    by   the 

271 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

stream.  There  it  ran,  its  depths  dark  and 
brown  from  the  many  cypress  knees  bending 
above  it  or  growing  in  the  swirl  of  its  waters. 
The  cypresses  were  bare  now  of  their  lance- 
like  leaves;  their  twisted  bodies  were  like 
brown,  rough  giants  asleep.  One  huge  tree 
at  our  feet,  with  its  roots  deep  in  the  hillside, 
thrust  its  trunk  straight  out  over  the  water, 
and  then  shot  at  right  angles  upwards.  I 
walked  out  on  it  and  sat  down.  I  could 
have  dangled  my  feet  over  the  rushing  water 
and  at  any  other  time  I  would  have  done  so ; 
but  now  I  leaned  against  the  trunk,  slipped 
my  bonnet  from  my  head,  and  felt  the  cool 
touch  of  the  wind,  and  listened  to  the  rush 
of  the  water.  Looking  down  at  Miss  Nancy 
near  me,  I  saw  the  strained,  determined  look 
of  her  face.  She  lifted  her  bent  head,  her 
eyes  met  mine. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  dreamily,  as  if  she  spoke 
the  conclusion  of  her  thought,  "  I  will  take 
care  of  Robert ;  I  shall  be  happy  to  do  it." 

"  Happy ! "  I  repeated  in  sudden  anger. 

"  Happy  to  be  of  use  to  him,"  she  corrected 
with  dignity,  "  not  happy  because  he  is  ill. 
272 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

But  as  he  lies  there  — "  she  brushed  her 
hand  across  her  forehead.  "  He  is  a  hand- 
some man,"  she  added  irrelevantly. 

I  smiled.  Robert  was  not  always  so 
considered. 

"  In  spite  of  his  red  head  ? "  I  asked 
whimsically. 

"  His  hair  !     It  is  beautiful." 

So  I  had  thought  many  a  time  as  I  had 
run  my  fingers  through  its  heavy  waves. 

"  It  is  just  the  color  of  his  father's,"  she 
added  dreamily. 

"  Did  you  know  his  father?  " 

"I?     Yes." 

"  Tell  me  of  him  ?  "  I  asked  eagerly. 

"  I  think  I  will,"  she  answered  composedly. 
But  there  was  some  little  pause  of  painful 
thought  before  Miss  Nancy  began. 

"  Robert  often  talks  of  him  ? "  she  asked 
softly. 

"  No,"  I  declared  curtly. 

"Why  —  he  —  " 

"  You  have  heard  of  him ;  every  one  has." 

"  I  know — I  know —     But  his  son!" 

"  He  treated  his  wife  shamefully." 
18  273 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

Miss  Nancy  clenched  her  hands. 

"  He  spent  every  cent  of  her  money,  and 
his  too,  and  left  Robert  —  " 

"  Don't  say  it !     But  he  loved  him." 

"  Who  ? " 

"  Robert's  father  loved  his  own  son." 

"I  doubt  it.  It  didn't  look  much  like 
it." 

"  But  in  his  home  life  ? " 

"  I  have  heard  nothing  to  his  credit." 

"  Robert  loved  him ! "  the  little  woman 
insisted  incredulously. 

I  smiled  scornfully.     "  I  suppose  he  did." 

"  Suppose,  suppose  !  Why  should  n't  he  ? 
If  ever  a  man  was  worthy  of  being  loved,  it 
was  Henry  Aylett." 

"  He  did  n't  show  it." 

"  He  was ;  and  it  was  their  fault  if  he  was 
not." 

"  Whose  ?  "  coldly. 

"  His  mother's,  his  father's,  his  sister's,  — 
all  of  them ;  if  they  are  dead  and  gone,  I  say 
it,  know  it.  It  was  their  fault." 

"  How  do  you  know  so  much  about  him  ?  " 
I  asked  awkwardly. 

274 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  I  ?  I  have  been  thinking  I  would  tell 
you.  I  must  tell  you,  —  with  Robert's  face 
there  on  the  pillow  so  like  his.  Has  no  one, 
none  of  the  older  people  ever  told  you 
of  me?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  It  is  a  wonder  !  They  talked  of  me  — 
or  of  Henry — enough  once.  But  it  has 
been  long  ago,  —  so  long  ago  that  it  is  time 
it  was  forgotten.  I  am  glad  they  are  not 
still  babbling  about  it,"  fiercely. 

I  was  too  astounded  at  this  outburst  to 
say  a  word,  and  Miss  Nancy's  thoughts  went 
back  a  long  way.  When  she  began  again 
it  was  at  a  far-off  point.  "You  have  seen 
where  they  lived,  —  Robert's  people  ? " 

"  Robert  took  me  there  one  day." 

"  You  remember  where  the  gate  opens  on 
the  road,  there  was  a  little  house  right  across 
from  it  ?  The  building  is  gone,  but  you 
can  see  where  it  stood." 

"  Yes." 

"  That  was  where  we  lived.  We  were 
close  enough,  'at  their  gates,'  but  we  were 
'poor  white  trash,'  and  taught  to  keep  our 
275 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

place.  His  mother  would  come  across  the 
road  once  a  year,  come  quite  grandly  and  sit 
by  our  hearth,  her  supercilious  glance  search- 
ing every  corner  of  the  room.  We  were  not 
forgotten  —  oh,  no !  nor  neglected.  At  hog- 
killing  time  a  negro  was  sent  to  bring  us 
sausage,  spare-ribs,  or  something;  in  summer 
a  piece  of  the  fresh-killed  lamb  was  left  at 
our  door;  we  were  duly  remembered  at 
Christmas.  They  were  too  grand  not  to  be 
kind. 

"  But  Henry  used  to  steal  off  from  the 
house  to  the  negro  cabins,  and  with  the  boys 
to  the  woods.  There  was  where  I  saw  him. 
I  lived  in  them  myself,  like  the  deer  or 
the  rabbit  or  any  wild,  shy  thing.  I  knew 
where  flowed  the  clearest  stream  to  wander 
by,  and  would  sing,  drowning  its  voice.  I 
knew  where  the  waters  could  be  dammed 
and  spread  into  lakes  for  floating  crafts  of 
bark  and  leaf;  where  the  minnows  darted, 
or  the  wild  grape  looped  a  swing;  where 
the  chestnut  unfolded  a  betraying  leaf  in 
May-time ;  where  the  pine  needles  were  dry, 
shielded  from  all  weathers,  and  circled  by 
276 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

twisting  roots  into  kitchen  and  hall  and 
chamber  for  fairy  housekeeping.  We  saved 
all  the  bits  of  broken  china  or  glass  for  its 
furnishing." 

Miss  Nancy  leaned  forward  looking  down 
into  the  dark  water.  Did  she  see  it  mirrored 
there,  —  the  deep  wood,  the  great  tree,  the 
fairy  palace  at  its  foot,  and  that  childish  two 
for  king  and  queen  ? 

"  When  we  grew  bigger  —  well,  no  one 
knew  at  the  big  house  of  the  hours  he  spent 
playing  about  our  yard,  of  the  many  times 
he  sat  by  our  fire,  and  ate  of  our  food  till  he 
had  no  appetite  for  the  dinners  of  his  own 
home.  They  never  paid  any  attention  to  me 
anyway,  never  seemed  to  know  that  I  existed. 
So  it  was  until  —  well,  I  never  knew  when 
he  was  grown  up,  or  when  I  was,  or  when 
we  began  to  be  more  than  playfellows.  We 
never  were  ! 

"  But  one  day  I  had  been  up  the  road  to 
pick  blackberries.  The  sun  was  as  bright, 
and  the  day  —  no  one  was  ever  happier  than 
I  was  then,  no  one !  When  my  basket  was 
nearly  full  I  heard  a  horse  come  trotting 
277 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

along  the  road.  I  hid.  I  never  liked  people, 
many  of  them.  I  never  liked  to  be  seen,  to 
meet  anybody.  I  never  went  to  church.  I 
would  not  be  scorned,  pointed  out  as  I  was 
—  on  account  of  —  of  my  birth.  So  I  hid. 
When  I  saw  it  was  Henry  I  ran  laughing 
out  into  the  road. 

"  He  jumped  from  his  horse,  threw  the 
bridle  over  his  arm,  and  together  we  walked 
down  the  path  by  the  road.  We  had  eyes 
and  ears  for  nothing  but  ourselves,  I  sup- 
pose. The  family  carriage  drove  right  up 
behind  us.  The  sandy  road  had  deadened 
the  sounds  anyhow.  I  will  not  tell  you 
what  happened.  There  sat  his  mother,  and 
she  carried  Henry  off  with  her,  the  negro 
who  had  been  sitting  up  behind  the  carriage 
to  open  the  gates  riding  his  horse.  That 
night  our  house  was  burned  down  over  our 
heads.  God  forgive  me  if  the  thought  I 
have  always  had  about  its  burning  is  false. 
Early  in  the  morning,  as  if  at  the  very  first 
news  of  it,  Henry's  mother  came  over  — 
grand  and  stiff  and  kind,, 

"  I  went  one  way.  as  she  came  the  other. 
278 


CALLED   TO    THE    FIELD 

I  heard  nothing  of  what  she  said,  but  when 
I  came  back  from  the  woods,  mother  was 
packing  her  few  things  in  an  ox-cart,  and  she 
was  eager  and  excited.  They  were  coming 
home  that  day,  here.  This  little  place  be- 
longed to  Henry's  mother  and  she  had  given 
it  to  mine.  There  was  nothing  for  me  to 
do  but  to  come  with  her. 

"  I  never  saw  Henry  again.  I  thought  — 
I  looked  —  but  his  mother  knew  how  to 
manage  him,  I  suppose.  In  six  months' 
time  he  married  the  woman  his  mother  had 
picked  out  for  him  years  before.  It  was  all 
right.  I  had  never  thought  of  his  marry- 
ing me,  or  anybody;  but  I  was  not  sur- 
prised. How  could  he  help  it?  how  could 
he  help  it?" 

I  felt  hot  anger  and  resentment,  but  pity 
too.  "  And  you  ?  "  I  asked  softly. 

She  started  as  if  from  long  reverie.  "  It 
took  me  a  long  time  to  see  it  all ;  it  was  not 
till  I  knew  he  was  married.  Then  I  vowed 
I  would  never  stay  at  home.  I  went  to 
Richmond  to  make  a  living.  I  knew  noth- 
ing, nothing.  Wild  as  I  had  always  been,  I 
279 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

was  handy.  I  knew  how  to  spin,  to  weave, 
to  raise  chickens,  to  work  in  the  garden. 
Who  wanted  that  done  ?  I  tried  to  take 
care  of  little  children,  to  teach  them.  I  had 
picked  up  some  little  learning  myself;  but  it 
would  n't  do.  I  tried  sewing.  Between  them 
I  got  along  somehow.  Then  mother  sent 
for  me.  Sister  Molly  was  married  and  gone 
away,  father  was  dead,  mother  was  bedridden. 
There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  come.  Here 
I  heard  that  Henry  had  gone  off  North  with 
his  wife. 

"  I  thought  I  could  not  stand  it  at  first, 
living  here,  but  she  lay  there  so  long,  and  I 
stayed  so  long  waiting  on  her,  that  when 
she  died  I  felt  as  if  I  had  become  a  part  of 
the  place.  I  had  set  out  the  flowers,  planted 
the  box,  put  out  the  fruit  trees,  worked  the 
garden»  It  seemed  the  only  life  I  had 
known,  in  this  world  anyhow. 

"  And,  child,  when  Robert  came  back, 
when  I  knew  who  had  bought  the  farm, 
when  he  came  down  here  one  day  —  Leave 
him  here  and  you  go  'long  home.  It  will 
be  found  out  if  you  don't,  and  nothing  could 
280 


CALLED   TO  THE    FIELD 

save  him.  Leave  him  here !  it  will  be 
something  for  me  to  be  thankful  for  in  all 
these  years.  Poor  Henry!  poor  Henry!  it 
was  wrong,  all  wrong !  " 

Wrong  ?  Yes !  But  the  wrong  began 
further  back  than  that.  It  began  with  the 
ancestry  which  made  Miss  Nancy  good  to 
look  upon  and  high  of  spirit.  Miss  Nancy 
was  born  before  her  mother's  marriage,  and 
the  man  at  whose  wedding  feast  she  sat,  a 
wide-eyed  child,  when  her  mother  was  mar- 
ried, was  not  the  man  whom  she  should  have 
named  "  father." 


281 


XXI 

THE  days  went  by  to  seven;  it  was 
Christmas  eve.  It  was  good  to 
know  that  Robert  was  safe,  to  re- 
member his  nurse's  delighted  care  of  him, 
to  recall  the  flush  on  her  wrinkled  cheek,  to 
think  that  he  himself  had  walked  that  day 
to  the  cabin  door  and  stood  there  watching 
when  I  left  —  else  the  bareness  and  dreari- 
ness would  have  been  unendurable. 

Mammy  went  about  her  kitchen  with 
pursed-up  lips  and  with  groanings  and  lam- 
entations over  her  empty  skillets  and  ket- 
tles. "  Whar  is  de  ham  dat  ought  to  be 
a-bilin'  hyar,  an'  de  tukky  dat  ought  to  be 
a-roastin'  till  de  smell  o'  it  done  gone  clear 
to  de  house? " 

"  For  mercy's  sake,  hush,"  I  cried  petu- 
lantly, "you  make  me  hungry." 

"  An'  narry  a  cake  in  de  house.  My 
mouf  's  been  waterin'  all  day  jes  a-thinkin'  o' 
282 


CALLED   TO    THE    FIELD 

all  dem  things  dat  did  n't  use  to  be  any  mo' 
den  de  watah  in  de  spring." 

I  sighed  in  sympathy.  The  thought  was 
tantalizing  to  my  keen  appetite,  but  as  I 
stood  on  the  rough  hearth  and  looked  down 
on  its  vacancy,  I  said  softly,  "  There  is  some- 
thing else  to  think  of:  Robert  is  here." 

"  When  he  done  come  ?  " 

"  Now,  Mammy,  you  know  that  is  not 
what  I  mean,"  impatiently ;  "  you  know  he 
could  n't  be  here,  at  this  house." 

"  Hm ! "  while  I  stood  watching  the  gap- 
ing, sooty  chimney's  mouth,  the  broken 
andirons,  the  plenteous  fire  —  of  that,  at 
least,  there  was  enough. 

"  Dat 's  a  fac',  dat 's  a  fac' !  "  after  a  silence, 
while  Mammy  stood  on  the  other  side  of  the 
hearth  as  thoughtful  as  I.  "  But  I  tell  you, 
Miss  Lucy,"  with  an  impatient  toss  of  her 
head  and  a  shake  of  her  fat  shoulders,  "  when 
you  sets  down  to  de  table  ter-morrer  an'  says 
'  Fer  what  we  are  'bout  to  receive,  Lawd  make 
us  thankful,'  dyar  won't  be  much  dyar  to 
make  a  fuss  ober." 

Mammy  bustled  about,  more  from  a  sense 
283 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

of  irritation  than  because  there  was  anything 
to  do,  but  I  stood  still  thinking.  I  was  tired 
and  worn.  I  had  put  into  the  energy  needed 
for  that  last  week  all  that  I  had,  and  there 
was  no  reserve  strength  left  to  buoy  me  up 
at  a  moment  when  no  call  was  being  made 
upon  my  faculties.  I  was  exhausted.  I 
thought  of  the  season,  of  that  day  in  other 
years.  No  holiday  will  ever  be  to  human- 
kind so  much  as  Christmas.  It  is  not  only 
the  significance  of  that  divine  birth  of  which 
it  stands  the  constant  reminder,  it  is  that, 
through  the  memory  of  the  divine  love 
which  gave  so  much,  our  hearts  go  out  to 
all  our  brotherhood,  making  life  deep  and 
intense.  The  days  stand  out  like  sentinels, 
and  we  unconsciously  mark  them  as  such, 
even  in  our  most  careless  years.  I  recalled 
the  first  Christmas  in  this  backwoods  home, 
our  gay  feasting,  father's  share  in  it,  —  there 
had  been  no  news  of  him  since  Robert  came, 
—  Robert's  delight  —  and  Robert  himself 
must  go  back  in  a  week  to  his  regiment. 
Our  household  would  be  once  more 
Mammy,  'Zekiel,  Dick,  and  I.  If  it  had 
284 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

not  been  for  that  comfort,  which  in  answer 
to  my  need  and  seeking  I  had  begun  to  feel 
as  an  atmosphere  about  me,  I  could  not 
have  faced  the  thought  of  it ;  as  it  was,  I 
drew  a  long  breath  standing  there  on  the 
old,  worn  hearth,  peering  into  the  flames 
and  watching  the  ruddy  coals  as  if,  as  of 
old,  they  held  some  hint  of  the  future. 

Mammy  heard  me  and  turned.  "  Chile," 
she  cried  anxiously,  "  you  '11  scorch  yo'  skirt 
standin'  dyar  so  close  to  de  fiah.  'Clare  ef 
't  ain't  hot  now !  "  she  ran  her  hands  down  the 
front  breadth  ;  "  an'  dat  's  the  onlies'  one  you 
got.  Miss  Nancy 's  thinkin'  o'  sumpin'  else 
now  'sides  weavin'.  You  bettah  go  'long  in 
de  house  an'  res'  yo'se'f." 

I  had  stopped  in  the  kitchen  on  my  way 
across  the  yard  as  I  came  home  from  Miss 
Nancy's ;  the  glowing  hearth,  Mammy's  com- 
fortable self,  her  warm-hearted  love  were  al- 
ways a  loadstone.  My  feet  seldom  carried 
me  along  the  path  straight  past  it;  it  was  a 
half-way  house  for  every  errand. 

"  Go  'long  in  de  house  an'  res'  yo'se'f,"  she 
repeated.     "  You  looks  clean  tuckered  out." 
285 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

I  went  slowly.  I  was  tired  out  with  my 
loneliness.  The  early  dusk  darkened  the 
land,  but  through  the  window-panes,  which 
were  not  patched  with  paper  or  sealed  with 
board,  the  firelight  shone  out  on  the  yard. 
I  went  into  the  empty  chamber  and  took 
from  the  closet  the  shirts  I  had  made  for 
Robert  and  had  saved  through  more  than  one 
raid  by  pinning  them  beneath  my  voluminous 
skirts,  and  the  socks  I  had  knitted  on  many 
an  evening  when  the  gleaming  needles  were 
all  the  company  I  could  boast.  I  laid  them 
on  my  low  flag  chair  and  slipped  down  upon 
the  rug  before  them  to  smooth  them  and 
fold  them  once  more.  As  I  did  so  with  lov- 
ing touch,  I  heard  in  the  hall  the  sound  of  a 
step  which  sent  my  heart  into  my  throat.  I 
sat  motionless,  breathless,  as  the  step  came 
nearer  to  the  door ;  a  hand  fumbled  with  the 
latchstring ;  the  door  was  opened.  I  sprang 
to  my  feet  and  ran  to  meet  Robert ;  there 
behind  him  stood  all  the  grinning  house- 
hold. 

"  We  done  brought  you  a  Chris'mas  gif," 
cried  Dick. 

286 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  Oh,"  I  cried  delightedly ;  "  did  you  know, 
Mammy  ? " 

"  To'  Gawd,  I  did  n't.  Dey  'd  nebbah  'a' 
done  it  ef  I  had.  'T  was  'Zekiel  an'  dat  boy 
what  fixed  up  dis  hash.  I  thought  Miss 
Nancy  would  'a'  had  mo'  sense." 

"  I  'm  all  right,"  cried  Robert,  as  he  sank 
into  his  own  big  chair.  "  How  good  it  is 
to  be  here  !  " 

His  face  was  deeply  flushed ;  it  was  from 
excitement,  of  course,  I  told  myself.  I  was 
a  goose  for  noticing  it.  "  When  did  you 
plan  this  ? "  I  asked  joyfully.  "  Did  you 
know  you  were  going  to  do  it  when  you  bade 
me  good-by  to-day  ?  Oh ! "  to  his  "  yes,"  "  it 
was  mean  to  let  me  think  —  " 

But  they  all  laughed  at  me  then,  Robert 
with  the  rest.  I  slipped  back  to  my  seat  on 
the  rug.  "  Here  are  your  Christmas  presents, 
sir ;  since  you  have  come  in  and  found  them 
all  spread  out,  you  can  have  them  now." 
Laughing,  I  gave  him  the  history  of  each 
gift,  but  I  watched  him  keenly.  I  feared  he 
had  overtaxed  himself,  and  when  the  red  on 
his  cheek  grew  deeper,  instead  of  fading  with 
287 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

the  waning  of  his  excitement,  when  I  slipped 
my  hand  over  his  where  it  lay  on  the  wide 
arm  of  his  chair  and  felt  it  hot  and  dry,  I 
knew  that  mischief  was  afoot. 

The  evening  was  well  past  then.  I  made 
some  pretence  of  outside  duties,  and  got  out 
of  the  room  to  Mammy's  cabin.  "  Mammy, 
Robert  is  worse;  he  has  a  fever!"  I  cried 
before  my  foot  was  over  the  doorsill. 

"  Hush  !  "  —  in  dismay. 

"  What  are  we  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  Maybe  he  's  jes  tiahed;  he  '11  be  all  right 
by  morninV 

I  shook  my  head.  I  believed  worse  was  in 
store  than  her  hopefulness  suggested.  "  Not 
a  drop  of  medicine  in  the  house,  not  a  doctor 
to  be  had,"  I  murmured. 

"  Is  you  got  any  quinine  ?  " 

"  Not  a  grain."  We  were  a  healthy  family, 
and  the  small  store  of  remedies  we  had  had 
when  such  things  were  to  be  bought  was 
exhausted  long  ago. 

"  I  s'pose  if  we  nussed  him  through  once, 
we  can  do  it  again,"  declared  Mammy,  bel- 
ligerently. 

288 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  Must  we  send  for  Miss  Nancy  ?  " 

"  Guess  I  knows  nigh  'bout  as  much  as 
she  does.  Is  he  got  much  fever  ?  Dick,  set 
dat  kettle  on  to  bile !  'Zekiel,  go  fetch  me  de 
mortar  an'  de  pestle.  Dyar  's  some  mustard 
seed  hyar,  Miss  Lucy.  A  good  hot  baf,  an' 
a  plaster  —  dat's  de  thing.  'T  ain't  much  in 
folks  you  cyarnt  wuk  out  in  a  good  sweat ; 
yas  'm,  dat 's  de  thing." 

Mammy  reached  up  to  the  rafters  for  a 
bunch  of  the  long  slender  seed-pods.  "  I  '11 
jes  poun'  'em  an'  fix  'em  an'  put  his  feet  in  a 
hot  baf,  an'  in  de  mornin'  we  '11  see." 

But  we  saw  how  ill  he  was  long  before  that. 
Mammy  was  scared  to  ashy  whiteness  when 
we  went  in  and  found  him  already  talking  at 
random.  We  got  him  upstairs  and  to  bed, 
the  low  room  under  the  eaves  was  more  com- 
fortable than  the  chamber  with  its  shattered 
windows ;  still  the  stream  of  talk  flowed  on. 

He  babbled  of  camp,  its  wants,  its  hard- 
ships —  things  he  had  sedulously  kept  from 
us ;  he  told  how  he  had  longed  for  home,  for 
me.  Dignified  Robert  had  the  tongue  of  a 
gossip  as  we  tended  him. 
19  289 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

He  flung  shoulders  and  arms  out  of 
the  covers  when  we  had  tucked  him  in. 
"  You  need  n't  coddle  me,"  he  laughed  while 
the  glitter  of  delirium  shone  in  his  eyes. 
"  I  'm  tough  !  Bed  !  pillows !  quilts !  Pshaw ! 
I  Ve  slept  many  a  night  in  a  corn-furrow 
and  waked  to  find  the  water  nearly  over  me 
when  it  had  rained  while  I  slept,  and  I 
did  n't  even  know  it,  and  I  have  gotten  up 
soaked,  no  breakfast,  not  a  morsel,  and 
marched  all  day.  Do  you  know,  Lucy,  what 
was  the  best  thing  I  ever  tasted,  none  of 
your  hams  ever  equalled  it.  We  were  on  the 
march ;  I  had  had  nothing  to  eat  for  three 
days  but  green  corn,  when  we  camped  one 
night  near  a  farm-house.  I  wandered  off,  like 
many  another  soldier,  to  look  for  something 
to  eat.  The  people  there,  in  the  house  I 
mean,  would  n't  give  us  a  thing ;  said  they 
had  nothing  for  themselves.  I  went  around 
to  the  kitchen  window,  —  "  he  began  to  laugh, 
—  "the  cook  had  just  poured  some  hot  fat 
bacon  and  gravy  into  a  dish.  How  good 
it  smelled !  I  never  said  a  word.  I  just 
reached  through  that  window  and  took  up 
290 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

that  dish  and  drank  every  drop  of  gravy, 
—  yes,  drank  it;  the  bacon  I  grabbed  up 
in  my  hands.  I  never  did  taste  anything 
so  good,  not  even  your  Christmas  doings. 
It's  Christmas  now,  is  n't  it?  where  am 
I?"  He  tried  to  sit  up  in  bed.  "Oh, 
yes,  home,  home;  yes,  I  know;  it's  time 
the  wheat  was  planted  and  the  cornfield 
ploughed.  'Zekiel  will  have  done  it;  oh, 
yes.  I  can  trust  him.  He  is  the  good 
farmer,  not  I.  I  never  was  good  for  any- 
thing much.  And  Lucy  will  take  care  of 
everything.  When  I  go  some  day  —  "  the 
talking  broke,  trailed  off  to  indistinct  mut- 
terings. 

He  rambled  on  pitifully,  mercilessly. 
Every  inmost  feeling  of  his  heart,  hidden 
and  guarded  with  dignity,  was  laid  bare. 
Mammy's  tears  ran  down  her  face  as  she 
listened,  but  my  eyes  were  hot  and  dry.  By 
and  by  he  fell  into  a  heavy  sleep ;  his  ster- 
torous breathing  echoed  through  the  attic. 
The  stars  paled,  the  dawn  of  Christmas 
broke.  I  gave  the  day  no  heed,  nor  the 
night  nor  day  which  followed  it.  Daylight 
291 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

and  candle-light  came  and  went  again;  and 
then  our  household  went  hushed. 

I  shut  every  one  of  them  out  of  the  room. 
I  alone  would  nurse  Robert  and  share  his 
danger.  My  meals  could  be  brought  to  the 
head  of  the  stairs,  water  and  wood  could  be 
left  there  ;  further  none  should  come.  There 
was  no  danger  from  the  outside.  I  knew 
well  enough  that  far  away  and  lonely  as  we 
lived,  it  would  be  bruited  abroad  that  Robert 
was  at  home.  I  waited,  a  fierce,  resentful  joy 
at  my  heart  when  I  thought  of  it,  till  they 
should  send,  as  I  knew  they  would,  to  cap- 
ture him.  I  trusted  there  would  be  no  one 
to  interrupt  them,  no  one  about  the  place 
seeing  them  before  I  should,  who  would  stay 
what  I  should  do  and  say  when  that  day 
came. 

It  fell  out  as  I  wished.  Dick  and  'Zekiel 
were  hauling  wood,  Mammy  was  at  the  barn, 
when  I  heard  the  clatter  of  the  gate  and 
knew  what  it  was.  Robert  was  asleep ;  I 
prayed  he  should  sleep  on  as  I  latched  the 
door  behind  me  and  stole  softly  down  the 
stair. 

292 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

The  leader  of  the  little  squad  of  soldiers 
was  already  dismounted,  the  six  men  with 
him  were  half-way  out  of  their  saddles.  At 
sight  of  me  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  he  strode 
up  the  path,  into  the  hall. 

"  We  have  heard  that  Robert  Aylett  is 
here  ;  he  lives  here  ?  " 

"  Yes."  My  tone  was  low,  my  manner 
calm  and  gracious. 

"  He  is  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  with  still  the  same  demeanor. 

The  leader  turned,  and  made  a  gesture  ;  I 
saw  the  men  surrounding  the  house. 

"Where  is  he?  "shortly. 

11  He  is  ill." 

"  So  we  have  heard,"  —  as  if  he  knew  how 
much  credence  to  give  such  a  report  and  was 
not  to  be  fooled. 

"  No  one  has  seen  him  for  three  days 
besides  myself." 

"  You  expect  me  to  believe  that  ?  " 

"  He  is  too  ill  to  be  in  any  way  disturbed." 

"  Disturbed  ?  "  sarcastically,  "  we  will  not 
disturb  him.  Where  is  he  ?  " 

I  made  a  backward  movement  of  my  head. 
293 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  Up  there." 

"  Stand  aside  !  " 

I  put  my  hand  across  the  narrow  space 
between  me  and  the  other  wall,  so  guarding 
the  way.  "  You  go  at  your  own  peril,"  I 
warned  him  sternly. 

"  Then  he  is  not  ill.     Stand  aside." 

"At  your  own  peril,"  I  repeated  with  an 
added  seriousness.  It  was  all  turning  out 
just  as  I  had  in  fancy  seen  it,  but  my  imagin- 
ation had  gone  no  further  than  this.  I  had 
not  thought  what  next  I  should  have  said  or 
done  had  the  responsibility  been  mine,  for 
some  demon  seemed  to  possess  me.  He 
raised  his  hand  to  brush  mine  aside.  I 
stepped  down  from  the  last  stair  on  which  I 
stood,  courtesying  as  if  I  had  been  his  part- 
ner in  a  play  ;  the  way  was  open. 

But  before  he  could  mount  a  step,  Maria 
came  running,  panting  along  the  path. 
"  Man ! "  she  halloaed.  "  Man  !  "  The  soldier 
turned  as  she  paused  for  breath. 

"  Don't  you  go  make  a  fool  of  yo'se'f. 
Marse  Robert 's  got  de  small-pox !  " 


294 


XXII 

IS  AT  down  on  the  stair  and  watched  them 
racing  down  the  lane.  Poor  fellows ! 
Small-pox  was  the  dreaded  scourge  of 
their  camps  and  ours  alike.  Had  I  told  the 
officer  when  he  entered  that  such  was  the 
sickness  I  nursed,  he  would  not  have  believed 
me;  as  it  was  he  knew  the  truth,  and  we 
would  go  long  untroubled.  Of  that  I  was 
certain.  Dire  as  was  the  disease  it  would 
yet  make  a  guard  about  us.  I  went  with 
lightened  heart  up  to  the  attic  room  ;  we 
were  shut  in  to  our  trouble,  but  we  were 
shut  out  from  danger. 

The  days  sped  by ;  I  let  no  one  come  near 
me ;  even  with  Mammy  I  held  counsel  across 
safe  distances. 

"  Is  he  done  broke  out  good  ? "  she   in- 
quired anxiously  for  several  mornings  after 
the  eruption  had  bespoken  the  disease.     "  Is 
he  done  broke  out  good  ?  " 
295 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  Yes,"  I  answered  doubtfully.  Robert 
was  not  covered  from  head  to  foot,  as  I  had 
feared  he  would  be. 

"  Is  he  got  'em  thick  ?  " 

"  His  chest  is  covered  and  about  his  wrists 
and  the  edges  of  his  hair." 

"  La  !  de  small-pox  ought  to  kiver  him  till 
you  could  n't  put  a  pin  p'int  down  on  de 
nat'ral  skin." 

I  shuddered. 

"  Deed  it  ought,  honey ;  ef  it  don't  come 
out  on  his  outsides  it 's  gwine  to  come  out 
on  his  insides,  an'  den  —  "  the  fearful  roll  of 
her  eyes  intimated  what  might  be  expected 
to  follow.  "  You  '11  hab  to  give  him  suinpin' 
to  bring  it  out." 

"  What  ?  "  Robert  was  resting  more  easily 
and  naturally  than  he  had  done  since  he  was 
taken  ill.  I  hated  the  idea  of  dosing  him 
with  hot  drinks.  "  What  would  you  give 
him  ? " 

Mammy  hesitated.     "  Well,  I  can  make  a 

tea  o'  sassafras  roots  or  cherry- bark  or  fod- 

dah ;  dey 's  all  good  in  dyar  tuhn.    But  seein' 

as  dis  is  a  sort  o'  skin  disease  lak,"  doubt- 

296 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

fully,  "you  mought  call  it  kind  o'  blood 
trouble.  I  spec'  it  had  bes'  be  sassafras/' 

"  Have  you  got  the  bark  ? "  I  asked,  fear- 
ing it  must  be  done. 

"  No  'm.  I  '11  jes'  go  straight  out  to  de 
woods  an'  git  it." 

"Just  so  that  you  have  it  ready  by  night," 
I  hesitatingly  assented. 

"Dat's  de  bes' time." 

But  teas  had  no  effect  on  Robert.  The 
eruption  was  slight  compared  to  the  high 
fever  which  preceded  it.  By  and  by  Mammy 
had  another  trouble. 

"  Honey,"  she  would  ask,  her  forehead 
deeply  wrinkled,  "  how  does  you  feel  to- 
day?" 

"  Fine  !  "  I  would  answer  emphatically. 

"  I  hearn  you  laughin'  dis  mornin'  clean 
down  at  de  kitchen,"  she  accused  one 
day,  speaking  as  if  she  had  hardly  been 
able  to  believe  the  evidence  of  her  own 
ears. 

"  Yes,  indeed  !  "  I  took  off  my  bonnet 
and  swung  it  by  its  strings,  letting  the 
morning  air,  cold  as  it  was,  blow  about  my 
297 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

head.  "  Mammy,  Robert  is  better ! "  I  an- 
nounced it  jubilantly. 

"  I  s'pose  so,  honey ;  I  s'pose  so."  But 
the  note  of  anxiety  was  still  there. 

"  He  is  going  to  get  up  to-morrow." 

"Ain't  you  fear'd;  'deed  you'd  bettah  be 
keerful." 

"  I  can't  keep  him  in  bed  a  day  longer. 
Tell  Dick  to  pile  up  the  passage  with 
wood." 

"Ain't  you  got  ernuff?     Dat  lazy  boy — " 

"  Oh,  plenty !  But  I  want  lots  for  to- 
morrow." 

"  Don't  you  want  to  take  a  walk  erroun'  ? 
Marse  Robert  won't  miss  you;  you  say  he 
is  so  much  bettah." 

"And  have  you  all  running  out  of  my 
way?  No,  I  thank  you." 

"  You  knows  ef  we  runs  't  is  'cause  you 
done  tol'  us  to." 

"  Mammy,  what  am  I  going  to  do  for  a 
dress  ?  "  I  asked  suddenly.  "  You  know  this 
one  will  have  to  be  burned." 

"  Miss  Nancy  sent  me  word  she  got  yo' 
dress  nearly  done.  I  done  dyed  de  thread  — 
298 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

yes,  indeed,  long  ergo ;  an'  she  done  wove  it, 
an'  now  she 's  makin'  of  it." 

"  Tell  her  to  have  it  ready  in  a  week,"  I 
laughed. 

But  instead  of  answering,  Mammy  went 
back  to  her  old  plaint.  "  Honey,  how  does 
you  feel?" 

"  How  do  you  feel  yourself  ? " 

"  'Zekiel  's  got  de  rheumatiz  wuss  dan  he 
ebbahhaditbefo'!" 

"  How  about  you  ? " 

"  Nuthin'  don't  ebbah  mattah  long  me," 
with  a  toss  of  her  head. 

"  Nor  me !  " 

She  made  an  exclamation  under  her  breath, 
and  I  determined  to  have  it  out,  then  and 
there.  "  Look  here,  Mammy,"  I  said,  so 
quickly  that  she  started.  "  I  know  what  you 
are  beating  around,  and  you  might  just  as 
well  stop  it.  You  are  scared  to  death  with 
thinking  I  am  going  to  catch  the  small-pox. 
Don't  you  worry  yourself ;  I  am  not  going  to 
have  it.  Freckles  are  about  the  worst  in  that 
line  I  shall  have  to  endure,"  I  added  saucily. 

"  Gawd-a-mighty !  don't  make  fun  'bout 
299 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

nuthin'  lak'  dat."  Mammy  turned  away 
with  a  groan,  as  she  had  done  many  a  time 
when  I  had  been  an  unmanageable  child 
past  her  understanding.  It  was  a  sort  of 
"  You 's  past  me,  you  got  to  fight  it  out  wid 
yo'se'f"  adjuration,  but  it  did  not  dampen 
my  spirits.  I  wanted  to  sing  like  the  wren 
that  perched  on  the  garden  gate  and  swelled 
its  tiny  throat  with  the  ripple  of  its  melody. 
I  wanted  to  tramp  abroad,  to  feel  the  heavy 
soil  cling  to  my  heel,  to  smell  the  clear,  cold 
air  blowing  beneath  the  pines  while  the  dry 
needles  slipped  under  my  foot ;  to  loiter  on 
the  sunny  side  of  some  far-off  fodder  stack, 
the  smell  of  it  in  my  nostrils,  the  sun  stream- 
ing over  me,  and  when  I  threw  back  my 
head  against  the  rough  rustling  leaves  to 
look  straight  into  the  blue,  to  watch  some 
small  cloud  drifting  to  unknown  and  un- 
named harborage,  to  hear  the  crows  call 
across  empty  fields  —  but  it  was  yet  too 
soon!  I  must  go  back  to  the  little  room 
with  its  sloping  roof  and  low  mantel-shelf 
and  slits  of  windows  peeping  skyward. 
Prison  it  might  be,  but  that  prison  held 
300 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

my  husband.  The  unspeakable  delight  of 
those  long  days  when  we  talked  ourselves 
back  to  the  intimacy  when  the  mind  of  one 
was  an  open  page  to  the  other !  The  winter 
hours  drifted  by  unheeded,  save  for  light 
and  shadow  or  star-gleams  through  the  small 
panes. 

By  the  end  of  the  month  Robert  was 
downstairs.  It  was  high  time  he  was. 
'Zekiel  had  taken  to  his  bed.  My  hands 
were  fuller  than  they  had  been  when  nursing 
was  my  single  care.  Robert  declared  he 
never  saw  anything  more  of  me  than  the 
flitting  of  my  brown  homespun  dress  about 
the  yard,  and  he  said  it  a  trifle  fretfully. 

"  You  are  spoiled,  sir,"  I  retorted.  "  Do 
you  expect  me  to  stay  by  your  side  all  day 
long?  You  have  had  your  coddling." 

"  Where  are  you  going  now  ? "  I  had 
stopped  for  but  a  moment  by  his  side. 

"Out  to  the  barn." 

"  Sit  down  and  rest." 

"  I  am  not  tired.  I  am  worn-out  with 
staying  in  the  house,"  I  declared,  with  a  toss 
of  my  head. 

301 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  So  am  I ;  I  am  going,  too." 

"  You  must  not."  I  put  my  hands  on  his 
shoulders  and  pressed  him  down  again  into 
his  chair.  "  It's  cold  and  raw;  we  are  going 
to  have  a  storm  before  morning.  Dick  and 
I  are  trotting  around  to  see  if  everything 
is  all  right.  It 's  such  fun !  " 

Robert  slipped  his  hand  over  mine,  where 
it  lay  on  his  shoulder,  and  drew  it  to  his 
cheek,  kissed  it.  I  felt  a  tremble  of  his  lips 
which  touched  my  fingers,  but  I  made  no 
sign  of  knowing  it. 

Brave  it  as  I  might,  I  was  tired  then,  and 
when  I  came  back  I  was  exhausted.  I  sat 
down  and  leaned  back  in  my  chair,  too 
wearied  to  rub  the  mud  from  the  heavy 
brogans  I  wore.  Robert  was  walking  up 
and  down  the  room. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  stay  here  shut  up  and 
see  you  do  this,"  he  declared,  a  blaze  of  anger 
in  his  brown  eyes. 

"  What  will  you  do,  then  ?  "  I  asked,  with 
a  weak  pretence  at  airiness. 

"  I  am  going  out,  —  out-of-doors ! " 

A  howl  of  wind  tore  at  the  paper  pasted 
302 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

against  the  window ;  the  rain  and  snow  came 
spitting  along  the  floor. 

"  Beautiful  weather  for  it,"  I  declared,  as  I 
jumped  up  to  reach  for  something  to  stuff  in 
the  hole  and  keep  out  the  storm. 

Robert  groaned.  He  leaned  against  the 
mantel-piece  watching  me.  His  face  was 
flushed,  his  manner  hesitant,  vvhen  I  came 
back  to  my  chair. 

"Lucy,"  he  began,  "you  had  corn-bread 
for  breakfast  and  for  supper,  and  — " 

"  We  shall  have  it  for  breakfast  and  dinner 
and  supper  again,"  I  declared  glibly. 

This  want  was  all  that  I  had  kept  from 
him ;  it  was  so  unbelievable  to  need  food. 

"  Is  that  all  you  have  ?  " 

"  We  are  lucky,  sir,  to  have  that.  We 
can't  starve." 

"  My  God  ! "  It  was  all  he  said,  but  the 
tone  of  it! 

"  What  does  it  matter?  "  I  cried,  saying  in 
my  excitement  exactly  what  I  thought.  "  If 
we  can  only  find  something  for  you  to  eat !  " 

"Me!"  ' 

"  I  look  as  if  I  were  suffering,  don't  I  ?  " 
303 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

I  stood  out  boldly  in  the  firelight,  challeng- 
ing his  scrutiny.  His  lips  curved  into  a 
smile  despite  himself. 

"  You  look-       No,  I  will  not  tell  you." 

"  You  are  afraid  of  feeding  my  vanity. 
Well,  the  springtime  will  soon  be  here,"  I 
added,  thinking  of  our  pressing  wants. 
"  This  is  the  first  of  February." 

"  Yes."  Robert  turned  to  finger  his  pipe. 
"  I  must  be  gone  by  the  fifteenth." 

I  had  known  it  all  along.  It  was  I  who 
had  written  to  the  captain  of  his  regiment  of 
his  wound  and  of  his  illness,  and  had  sent 
the  letters  over  to  the  next  county  where  a 
soldier,  home  on  furlough,  could  carry  it 
with  him  when  he  returned.  It  was  I  who 
had  received  the  answer.  But  now  I  dared 
not  look  at  Robert's  eyes. 

That  stormy  day  was  the  last  when  I  held 
Robert  in  check.  As  soon  as  the  sun  shone 
and  the  ground  dried,  he  slipped  my  leash. 
Weak  as  he  was,  pitiably  thin  as  he  looked, 
with  the  cruel  pock-marks  showing  blue 
against  his  fair  skin,  he  would  listen  to  no 
word  of  caution.  Unploughed  fields  and 
304 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

broken  fences  and  desolation  fairly  mad- 
dened him.  A  very  itching  for  work  pos- 
sessed his  weak  ringers. 

While  he  still  had  strength  for  nothing 
but  commands  he  leaned  against  the  garden 
palings  and  made  Dick  plough  the  squares 
of  earth  between  the  borders,  I  hovering 
near  with  much  the  manner  the  "yaller" 
hen  showed  over  the  lone  chick  she  had  pre- 
maturely hatched.  Then  he  must  try  jobs 
of  carpentry.  Can  I  forget  that  day  when, 
worn  with  my  own  weariness  and  doubly  so 
from  watching  his  white  face,  where  the  per- 
spiration, bred  of  exhaustion,  stood  thick 
upon  his  forehead  despite  the  shrewish  wind, 
my  fingers  trembled  on  the  board  which  I 
held  in  place  for  his  nailing  and,  stooping, 
he  kissed  them  without  a  word,  without 
looking  up?  It  was  well  that  he  did  not. 
On  some  of  those  days  my  mood  was  happy, 
on  some  wayward  and  bitter;  that  day  the 
blackness  was  thick  —  that  kiss  dispelled  it. 

He  straightened  himself;  the  day's  task 
was  done.  When  he  began  the  work  of  the 
next  I  protested  with  all  my  might.  The 
20  305 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

sky  was  cloudy  or  clear  by  fitful  starts,  the 
wind  bitterly  cold.  "  You  are  not  going  out 
this  morning  ? "  I  begged,  as  he  wandered 
restlessly  to  the  door. 

Instead  of  answering  my  question  he 
asked  another.  "  You  are  going  down  to 
see  Miss  Nancy  ?  " 

"  I  had  intended  to,  but  it  is  too  cold  for 
you." 

"  For  me  ?  You  might  as  well  stop  cod- 
dling me." 

"  Then  you  want  to  go  ? "  The  fireside 
was  most  alluring  on  that  sharp  morning. 

"  No."  Then  after  a  pause,  "  Don't  wait 
for  me." 

"  It 's  you  she  wants  to  see."  I  pretended 
a  pout  of  jealousy. 

"  I  can't  go,"  decisively. 

"  Neither  will  I,  then.  You  are  not  going 
out?  Wait!  Here,  sir!"  as  I  ran  back 
with  his  worn  but  warm  army  coat,  "  you  are 
to  wear  this.  There !  "  I  fastened  the  top- 
most tarnished  button,  tiptoed  to  pinch  his 
cheek,  and  ran  backwards  from  him  down 
the  path.  He  caught  me  at  the  gate,  and 
306 


CALLED   TO    THE    FIELD 

there  I  saw  what  he  had  been  trying  to  keep 
me  from  knowing  —  Dick  was  coming  along 
by  the  garden,  driving  a  horse  which  was 
hitched  to  the  plough. 

"  I  thought  Dick  was  going  to  The  Or- 
dinary," I  exclaimed. 

"  He  is." 

"  Who  is  going  to  plough  ?  " 

"  I,"  calmly. 

"  You  are  not,"  I  vowed  hotly. 

"  You  see  that  land ;  it  should  have  been 
cultivated  last  fall." 

"  There  was  no  one  to  do  it." 

"  Who  is  going  to  do  it  now  ?  " 

I  sighed.  Corn  must  be  planted  there  if 
we  were  to  have  bread  for  the  next  year. 
"  Oh,  somebody,"  I  said  lamely. 

Robert  pretended  no  argument.  The 
need  was  too  evident.  'Zekiel's  rheumatism 
had  grown  worse ;  there  was  not  a  hand  to  be 
hired.  Robert  picked  up  the  reins,  slipped 
them  around  his  shoulders,  and  put  his 
hands,  white  and  thin,  on  the  plough 
handles;  he  trailed  the  share  near  to  the 
border  of  the  lane  and  began  running  a  fur- 
307 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

row  by  its  side  straight  down  toward  the 
pines.  The  steel  cut  through  the  rich  brown 
soil;  the  smell  of  fresh-turned  earth  was  in 
the  air. 

The  horse  settled  to  his  work;  Robert 
held  the  plough  steady;  I  tramped  by  his 
side.  We  had  no  fear  of  any  stranger  com- 
ing through  the  vista  ahead  of  us.  Even  our 
neighbors  kept  away.  We  were  as  secure 
as  if  peace,  and  peace  alone,  brooded  over 
our  country. 

But  the  clouds  grew  thicker  as  the  morn- 
ing lengthened,  the  winds  chillier  and 
stronger;  Robert  stopped  at  the  end  of  a 
furrow  near  the  house. 

"  Are  you  cold  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No ! "  My  homespun  dress,  brogan 
shoes,  and  heavy  shawl  kept  me  warm  and 
comfortable. 

"  I  am.     Wait  here  a  moment." 

I  was  leaning  against  the  plough,  my 
back  toward  the  house,  when  he  came  out. 
He  was  quite  close  to  me  before  I  turned 
and  saw  him.  I  shrieked  with  laughter. 
Father's  heavy  gray  shawl  was  pinned 
308 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

around  him  above  his  army  coat;  a  bright 
woollen  comfort  of  mine  was  tied  around  his 
head  and  crossed  under  his  chin,  the  fringed 
ends  of  it  hanging  down  behind ;  and  planted 
firmly  upon  it  was  his  big  soft  hat.  The 
pock-marks  at  the  edge  of  his  hair  showed 
blue  and  vivid  in  the  cold.  It  was  that 
and  his  look  of  weakness  which  stilled  my 
laughter,  and  kept  me  watching  him  as  we 
tramped  up  and  down,  up  and  down.  By 
and  by  he  pulled  the  horse  to  a  stand-still. 

"  There  is  a  spring  about  here  some- 
where," he  said.  "  I  am  thirsty." 

"  It  is  over  there  under  the  hill,  near  the 
path.  Go  on  and  find  it.  I  will  wait  for 
you." 

A  stream  cut  across  the  field  close  by, 
running  a  rippling,  dividing  line  between  it 
and  the  curving  woods ;  and  bush  and  bram- 
ble on  its  banks  made  a  thicket,  dry  and 
sheltering.  I  huddled  down  in  the  dry 
leaves,  the  thick,  small  branches  making  a 
brake  between  me  and  the  wind,  and  waited, 
listening  to  the  sighing  of  the  pines  and  the 
gurgling  stream.  I  could  watch  Robert  as 
309 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

he  went  along  the  path  which  led  up  the 
hill  and  through  the  woods  to  The  Ordi- 
nary. The  spring  gushed  from  the  hill  hard 
by  the  path  and  fed  with  trickling  rills  the 
broader  stream  whose  pools  and  clear  shal- 
lows were  behind  me.  Robert  knelt  by  the 
sparkling  water,  and  as  he  did  so  Dick  came 
singing  and  skipping  along  the  path  home- 
ward. 

Robert  raised  his  head.  At  that  instant 
Dick,  who  had  heard  no  sound  and  knew 
of  no  one  being  near,  espied  him.  The 
boy  threw  his  arms  above  his  head,  raised 
one  hoarse  scream,  and  sprang  across  the 
stream. 

"  De  debbil,  de  debbil ! "  he  shrieked.  "  Ise 
done  seed  de  debbil." 

"  Dick,  you  goose ! "  I  shouted,  but  he 
never  heard.  I  jumped  up  and  ran  after 
him.  "Dick,  Dick!"  I  called,  though  I 
could  scarcely  run  or  call  from  laughter ; 
but  I  heard  only  his  sob,  "  De  debbil !  Ise 
done  seed  de  debbil !  " 

I  gave  up  the  chase  and  went  back  to 
Robert.  When  we  had  had  our  laugh  out, 
310 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

we  concluded  to  follow  Dick.  Robert  had 
sent  him  to  The  Ordinary  for  news. 

As  soon  as  the  horse  was  taken  out,  I 
started  for  the  kitchen.  "  Where  is  Dick  ?  " 
I  called  in  at  the  door. 

"  In  de  cabin  wid  'Zekiel." 

"  What 's  the  matter  with  him  ?  " 

"  Lawd  only  knows !  He  's  skeered  plumb 
out  o'  his  wits." 

"  What  scared  him  ?  "  I  insisted. 

"  He  'low  as  how  he  done  see  de  debbil 
an'  he  done  come  fer  him."  Mammy  came 
out  to  the  door  to  answer  me.  "  Some 
foolishness;  done  seed  sumpin'  down  in  de 
woods." 

I  pointed  a  shaking  finger  at  Robert  com- 
ing around  the  chimney  corner.  Mammy 
gave  one  roll  of  her  eyes  at  him  and  plunged 
back  into  the  kitchen.  A  smothered  voice 
from  a  dark  corner  called,  "  Marse  Robert, 
dat  boy  had  a  note  fer  you ;  he  'low  as  how 
he  lost  it  when  —  down  by  de  spring." 

Tired  as  we  were,  Robert  and  I  set  out  to 
search  for  it;  it  was  our  just  punishment. 
Blown  along  with  the  sodden  and  drifted 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

leaves,  down  under  a  bramble  tangle  along 
the  gurgling  stream,  we  found  a  bit  of  white 
paper  folded  tightly.  It  contained  but  a  few 
words  penned  by  a  conscript  officer,  but  it 
shut  the  gate  on  all  our  careless  joy.  To 
obey  the  command  it  held  meant  that  Robert 
must  leave  me  at  sunrise  to-morrow  morning, 
—  and  he  must  obey. 


312 


XXIII 

THE  ploughing  of  the  field  was  fin- 
ished, but  it  was  Dick  and  I  who 
accomplished  it.  Mammy  stormed 
and  raved,  cried  furrows  down  her  cheeks 
over  me,  but  I  went  my  determined  way. 
'Zekiel's  illness  developed  into  long,  slow, 
rheumatic  fever.  With  our  blundering  at- 
tempts at  healing  he  had  but  to  live  through 
the  pains  and  outlive  them  if  he  could. 

The  long,  glorious  days  of  sunshine  went 
by;  days  of  warm  winds,  of  greening  grass, 
of  budding  leaves,  of  shy,  blooming  flowers ; 
and  gray  days  of  rain  blowing  in  slant  lines 
between  us  and  the  pines,  of  winds  moan- 
ing as  if  they  voiced  the  desolation  which 
closed  about  us. 

Had  we  been   the  only  ones  so  afflicted, 

remote  as  we  were,  we  should  have  known 

the  touch  of  human  kindness  which  would 

have   eased  our  burden   somewhat;  but  far 

3U 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

and  near  was  want,  heartache,  despair.  Our 
strait  was  better  than  that  of  some,  for  still 
there  came  news  of  Robert's  safety  and  of 
father's.  In  this  knowledge  I  lived. 

I  worked  as  I  had  seen  a  slave  do,  but 
without  his  strength,  his  ease  of  mind,  his 
jest,  his  song :  there  was  no  singing  on  my 
lips.  As  day  merged  into  day,  as  long  twi- 
lights and  early  dawns  bespoke  the  summer, 
I  began  to  feel  as  if  in  all  the  void  between 
the  sky  overhead  and  the  earth  underfoot, 
in  all  that  magic  space  rimmed  by  the  forest 
with  our  small  house  for  centre,  there  lived 
but  one  soul  —  and  that  was  I.  For  me  the 
sun  rose  above  the  eastward  pines  and  sent 
long  shafts  of  golden  light  across  my  world ; 
for  me  the  glorious  shine  of  clear  crimson 
sky,  of  roseate  clouds  parting  to  show  the 
evening  star  against  the  breadths  of  green 
when  the  world  —  my  world  —  turned  to  its 
rest ;  for  me  the  breath  of  winds,  the  purpling 
of  the  grasses,  the  roses'  bloom.  The  blue 
sky  overhead  was  God's  outstretched  hand, 
and  beneath  it  I  walked  in  awful  calm  and 
peace,  holden  beyond  dreaming,  strengthened 
3H 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

beyond  thought.  No  one  gainsaid  me,  word 
or  deed ;  I  think  they  all  feared  me. 

When  'Zekiel  hobbled  at  last  out  to  his 
work,  it  was  to  follow  my  slightest  words ; 
Dick  looked  at  me  askance.  Mammy's  fore- 
head and  her  cheeks  were  furrowed  that 
year  into  lines  no  after-peace  smoothed 
out. 

The  days  went  by.  There  were  cornstalks 
shoulder  high  in  the  fields,  the  sibilant  rus- 
tling of  their  leaves  was  on  the  wind,  the 
pungent  smell  of  them  in  the  air ;  fresh,  green 
things  for  eating  grew  in  our  garden,  by  and 
by  the  fodder  was  stacked,  the  corn  hidden 
in  the  cabin  in  the  woods ;  the  green  grass 
was  carpeted  by  yellow  leaves  down-drifted 
from  the  cherry  tree ;  the  wild  grasses  were 
sered  or  purpled  with  seed-pods  —  and  the 
day  of  which  I  had  dared  not  think,  the  hour 
for  which  no  tender  preparation  could  be 
made,  no  aid  invoked,  and  from  which  no 
power  could  save  me,  but  which  I  —  I  alone 
—  must  meet  and  endure,  had  come. 

It  was  an  October  night,  but  there  was 
no  balminess  of  Indian  summer  in  the  air; 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

instead  a  cold,  raw  wind  came  blowing  from 
the  east,  sobbing  in  the  chimneys,  shaking 
against  doors  and  windows.  A  fire  burned 
on  the  chamber  hearth  and  one  in  the 
dining-room ;  there  our  little  world  waited 
awe-stricken. 

"  Mammy,"  I  asked,  when  the  first  ago- 
nizing thrill  of  pain  set  my  nerves  a-quiver, 
"will  it  be  long?" 

"  Gawd  only  knows." 

"  Is  it  —  is  it  very  hard  ?  "  as  another  pain 
bent  me  in  my  chair  before  the  fire. 

"  Gawd  only  knows,"  repeated  the  loving 
soul,  stricken  to  the  core  by  my  suffering. 
"  Lan',  chile,"  as  she  gathered  her  courage, 
"  sometimes  't  ain't  nuthin'  't  all,  't  ain't  no 
mo'  dan  habin'  a  good  ole-fashioned  chill; 
an'  den  —  " 

"And  then  — and  then!"  Was  it  the 
gust  that  shrieked  it  ?  was  it  my  own  lips  ? 
Was  that  Mammy  kneeling  by  my  bedside, 
and  'Zekiel's  restless  feet  tramping  through 
the  hall,  and  Dick's  ashy  face  peering  inside 
when  Mammy  called  for  wood  ?  Was  it  the 
wind  that  moaned  and  moaned,  or  was  it 


CALLED    TO   THE   FIELD 

voices  in  the  house  ?  Was  it  the  writhings 
of  the  cherry  tree,  storm  lashed,  that  thrilled 
me  with  fear,  or  was  it  the  twistings  of  my 
own  body  lashed  by  pain  ?  Did  I  hear  a 
voice  sob,  "  Pray,  pray ;  fer  Gawd's  sake, 
pray !  You  cyarn't  do  nuthin'  else." 

I  know  I  asked,  when  nerve  and 
muscle  were  racked  until  it  was  unbeliev- 
able that  they  could  stand  more,  "  Am  I 
dying  ? " 

Faint  as  the  whisper  was,  it  carried  to  the 
black  head  bent  above  me.  "  Oh,  Gawd  ! 
Oh,  no,  Miss  Lucy,  honey !  No,  chile, 
no !  Try  an'  stan'  it ;  it  cyarn't  be  much 
longer." 

"  What  time  is  it  ?  "  I  whispered. 

"  I  dunno,  nigh  to  daybreak." 

"  Robert,"  my  lips  framed,  "  Robert  — " 
There  was  a  thought  I  tried  to  speak,  but 
it  would  not  come.  I  was  benumbed  to 
unconsciousness.  Nor  did  it  frame  itself  for 
long  hours.  I  opened  my  eyes  on  sunshine 
streaming  into  the  room,  firelight  gleaming 
on  the  bare  floor,  on  haggard  faces  by  my 
bedside. 


CALLED    TO    THE   FIELD 

"  Robert ! "  I  framed  the  words  at  last, 
"  what  will  he  say  when  he  sees  our  child  ?  " 
But  there  had  been  two  days  and  three 
nights  between  the  first  words  of  that  sen- 
tence and  the  last. 


XXIV 

IT  was  that  question,  and  that  alone, 
which  filled  night  and  day.  When  my 
lips  trembled  into  a  smile,  it  was  not 
the  baby,  red  and  round,  who  evoked  it  —  it 
was  the  thought  of  what  Robert  would  say 
to  her.  How  would  he  touch  her,  hold  her  ? 
How  awkward  he  would  be,  how  shy  and 
embarrassed  !  In  fancy  I  could  see  the  flush 
rising  up  his  fair  face  to  the  edges  of  his 
thick,  waving  hair,  could  see  the  sparkle  of 
love  and  wonder  growing  in  the  depths  of  his 
dark  eyes.  How  I  longed  for  him  !  his  strong 
touch  for  my  languor,  his  cheery  voice  to 
brighten  my  indifference.  For  I  had  lingered 
long  on  the  border  land.  The  needle  of 
life's  compass  dipped  unsteadily  ;  sometimes 
it  pointed  to  life  and  sometimes  to  its  oppo- 
site pole  of  death ;  it  was  Christmas-tide 
when  it  set  its  course  at  last  lifewards. 

The  world,  my  little  part  of  it,  drifted  by. 
I  had  no  thought  for  any  phase  of  it.     Once 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

there  was  news  from  Robert ;  that  was 
enough.  I  knew  my  great  truth  now  — 
God's  love  around  me,  God's  love  around 
him ;  so  we  were  kept,  so  we  were  together. 
I  had  fitted  no  theories,  solved  no  scheme  of 
the  unseen  ;  but  this  precious  knowledge  I 
held  fast. 

The  baby  grew  wonderfully.  Mammy, 
'Zekiel,  and  Dick  were  forever  peeping  at 
her,  hanging  about  her ;  but  I  felt  no  great, 
overwhelming,  all-sweeping  current  of  love 
toward  her;  she  was  but  a  joy  unfolding, 
ready  when  I  was  strong  enough.  I  was  too 
weak  for  any  great  emotion  except  that  one 
which  was  life  itself  —  my  love  for  Robert. 

When  I  could  creep  about  the  room  and 
sit  in  my  low  chair,  I  loved  to  have  her  in 
my  arms  or  on  my  lap,  though  they  would 
not  let  me  hold  her  often.  But  one  day,  as  I 
sat  with  her  on  my  knee,  her  small  body  lax 
with  sleep,  her  fingers  stirring  restlessly,  a 
smile  twitching  at  her  soft  mouth,  I  heard 
the  sound  of  wheels,  then  voices,  cries. 

In  my  weakness  I  scarcely  stirred  to  turn 
my  head  when  the  door  opened,  but  I  smiled, 
320 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

for  Emily  stood  there,  and  I  had  not  seen  her 
for  a  year. 

She  came  to  me  quickly,  knelt  by  my  side, 
put  her  arms  about  me ;  and  the  tears  were 
running  down  her  cheeks. 

I  looked  at  her,  and  I  was  as  still  as  the 
dead.  My  arms  fell  away  from  the  baby  on 
my  knee,  my  lips  were  motionless  ;  but  my 
eyes  questioned,  and  she  answered,  "  Robert 
is  dead." 


21 


321 


XXV 

"  f^\  OD's  love !  "  In  the  consciousness 
I  "W"  of  its  truth,  which  I  had  wrested 
from  reading,  from  prayer,  from 
hours  of  fearful  dreaming  and  realized 
agony  —  in  that  consciousness  I  lived.  It 
was  about  me  by  day,  the  whisper  of  it  was 
in  the  night  watches,  when  I  was  restless, 
though  the  baby  lay  warm  on  my  arm  and 
the  stars  shone  in  through  the  patched  win- 
dow-panes. All  the  tender  words  for  the 
broken-hearted  breathed  through  me,  and 
with  the  whispering  of  them  in  my  heart,  I 
would  turn  my  head  upon  my  pillow  and  fall 
at  last  asleep.  I  wakened  with  them  on  my 
lips.  I  took  courage  from  them  for  strength 
and  work.  For  there  was  work  not  only 
ahead  but  already  at  hand.  I  felt  the  need 
of  garnering  my  strength  for  it.  Life  goes 
on  for  the  broken-hearted  as  well  as  the  joy- 
ous, and  there  is  a  duty  for  each.  I  must  do 
322 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

the  work  allotted  one  as  I  had  known  the 
rapture  of  the  other. 

I  never  asked  about  Robert's  death ;  that 
it  was  true  was  enough  to  know.  I  heard 
that  he  had  died  on  the  battle-field,  that 
Lady  had  been  shot  under  him.  They 
found  the  faithful  beast,  but  Robert's  body 
they  did  not  find.  The  thought  of  it  in 
some  shallow  trench  pressed  close  by  many 
comrades  brought  no  sting  beneath  my  eye- 
lids. What  did  that  matter  ? 

Henry  brought  these  details.  His  right 
arm  had  been  shattered,  amputated,  and  he 
had  been  mustered  out.  When  he  came  to 
see  me  his  empty  sleeve  was  pinned  across 
his  breast.  He  had  much  to  say,  sad  words 
of  disaster  and  defeat,  hopeless  ones  of  worse 
yet  to  come.  He  told  me  of  father,  his 
enthusiasm,  his  courage,  his  inspiriting 
example. 

And  sharp  on  the  heels  of  his  visit  came 
that  last  great  raid  made  by  Fitzpatrick 
through  our  country.  When  it  swept  on  we 
had  left  to  us  housings  and  land  —  that  was 
all. 

323 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

We  lived  after  that  dreadful  tima  as  the 
birds  of  the  air  or  the  shy  beasts  of  field  and 
forest.  We  learned  to  be  glad  when  the 
dandelion  showed  its  leaves  and  the  polk  put 
up  its  stalks,  when  the  blackberries  ripened 
beside  the  stream  or  the  whortle-berries 
purpled  in  the  woods ;  we  learned  the  signifi- 
cance of  daily  bread.  Yet  face  to  face  with 
want  we  never  more  than  faced  it.  It  stood 
a  grim  phantom  on  the  border  line  of  each 
day,  but  the  next  day's  dawn  found  it  no 
nearer.  There  comes  a  keen,  elated  joy 
from  the  knowledge  that  in  time  of  dire 
stress  Our  Father  cares  for  our  daily  bread. 
So  Elijah  must  have  felt  when  he  awaited 
the  rustle  of  the  raven's  wings. 

The  blossom,  the  perfume  of  our  existence, 
was  the  new  life  in  our  home.  Upon  the 
wreck  and  ruin  of  all  we  had  known  the 
baby  grew,  with  ever  a  laugh,  a  dimpling 
cheek,  and  a  sturdy  will.  The  wonderful 
love  of  her  crept  into  my  cold  heart.  Never 
did  I  enter  the  room  but  her  joyous  smile 
greeted  me ;  never  did  I  slip  into  my  chair 
but  she  crept  into  my  lap  and  cuddled 
324 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

against  my  shoulder.  As  soon  as  she  learned 
the  use  of  her  soft,  pink  feet  she  would 
toddle  by  my  side,  holding  to  my  hand  or 
skirt  with  a  sturdiness  which  defied  all 
weather  and  a  joyousness  which  defied  all 
discomfort. 

So  she  clung  to  me  at  the  close  of  a  cheer- 
less November  day  when,  basket  in  hand,  I 
sought  the  woodpile.  Candles  we  had  none, 
and  our  store  of  pine  knots  was  low ;  I  went 
to  search  amongst  chips  and  logs.  The 
dusk  of  the  short  day  brooded  over  fenceless 
yards  and  barren  fields;  the  acrid  smell  of 
smoke  blown  low  about  the  chimneys  was  in 
the  air.  The  baby,  when  we  reached  the 
woodpile,  set  up  a  whimper  and  raised  a 
bare,  red  foot. 

"  Ah  ! "  I  cried  pityingly,  "  there 's  a 
splinter  in  that  foot ;  "  and  I  slipped  down 
on  a  log,  lifted  her  on  my  knee,  and  turned 
her  tiny  foot,  cold  and  chapped,  in  my  hands. 
"  There  's  nothing  here,  dearie  !  "  I  rubbed 
the  foot  softly.  "  It  must  have  been  a  chip 
that  hurt  you ;  that 's  all  right,  get  down !  " 
But  she  cuddled  the  closer. 
325 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

I  tied  the  bonnet  under  her  chin,  kissed 
her  soft,  warm  mouth ;  and  then  I  saw  that 
her  eyes  were  shy  and  affrighted,  that  they 
gazed  past  me.     I  looked  around. 

Blurred  against  the  brown  fields  loomed  a 
figure,  awful  in  the  dusk,  gaunt,  bent,  hag- 
gard. I  put  the  child  down  gently,  stumbled 
to  my  feet.  I  gave  a  gasp  —  that  ghostly, 
impalpable  vision  was  alive.  I  clenched  my 
hands  and  leaned  forward;  the  hands  of 
that  wraith  were  lifted  in  passionate  suppli- 
cation. I  shrieked  aloud  and  the  eerie  sound 
of  it  rang  over  the  desolate  yard  and  the 
empty  house. 

"Stand  back!"  the  wraith  cried  hoarsely; 
but  it  need  not  have  cautioned.  My  feet 
were  like  lead,  the  blood  beat  and  surged  in 
my  ears  until  I  could  have  distinguished  no 
word,  heard  nothing  but  that  voice. 

"  Is  it  you  ?  "  I  whispered.     "  You,  ALIVE  ! " 

"  It  is  I."  He  passed  his  hands  wearily 
across  his  face. 

II  You  ?     You  ?  "  I  still  whispered.     I  had 
breath  for  nothing   else.     I   moved   toward 
him. 

326 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  Stand  back  !  "  He  staggered  from  me. 
"  Keep  away !  Send  Maria  here  !  There 
she  is,  thank  God ! "  My  shrill  cry  had 
brought  her,  running.  He  gathered  his 
strength.  "  Maria !  "  he  called. 

"  Marse  Robert's  ghos' !  Marse  Robert's 
ghos' ! " 

"  My  God ! "  he  muttered  brokenly.  "  Has  n't 
she  got  any  sense  ?  Pull  her  up !  No,  run  to 
the  house !  Get  me  something  to  eat.  I  am 
starving." 

He  said  it  to  get  me  out  of  the  way. 
When  I  came  back  there  was  no  living  soul 
there  but  the  baby  sitting  still  and  scared 
where  I  had  left  her.  The  wood  stacks 
towered  black,  the  yard  was  empty ;  one 
light  shone  from  Mammy's  cabin.  I  rushed 
to  it,  but  the  door  was  barred ;  I  threw  my- 
self with  all  my  strength  against  it. 

"  Miss  Lucy !  Miss  Lucy  ! "  cried  a  voice, 
almost  inarticulate  from  emotion.  "  Wait  a 
minute,  honey ;  jes  wait  a  minute ! "  A  low 
moan  seconded  her. 

I  leaned  against  the  battened  door,  striving 
to  hear  every  sound  ;  I  fairly  fell  inside  when 
327 


CALLED    TO   THE    FIELD 

Mammy  opened  it,  but  she  caught  me,  held 
me,  and  fastened  it  behind  her. 

"  Let  me  see  him !  "  I  pushed  against  her 
angrily. 

"  You  cyarn't.'' 

"  I  will." 

She  picked  me  up  in  her  arms,  carried  me 
to  the  house,  and  sat  me  down  with  a  thump 
on  the  step.  "  Now,"  she  panted,  "  you  stay 
hyar.  Dis  ain't  no  time  fer  foolishness." 

"  It 's  Robert !  "  I  cried  hysterically. 

"  Ain't  you  got  eyes  ?  ain't  you  seed  him 
yo'se'f?"  ' 

"  He  's  alive,"  I  crooned. 

"  He  jes  is,"  Mammy  snapped ;  "  an'  ef  you 
don't  show  mo'  sense,  he  '11  die  right  hyar  on 
yo'  han's." 

"  Mammy,  how  —  " 

"  He  's  been  in  prison,  got  out  somehow, 
come  trompin'  his  way  home.  Chile,  run 
fer  de  uddahs,  let  'em  know.  In  de  name  o' 
sense  is  you  done  lef  dat  baby  at  de  wood- 
pile ? "  as  a  cry  came  from  the  back  of  the 
yard. 

"  Miss  Lucy,"  Mammy  put  her  hands  on 
328 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

my  shoulders,  "  he  's  got  to  be  washed,  he  's 
got  to  hab  his  hyar  an'  his  whiskers  cut ;  an' 
ebery  las'  rag  he 's  got  on  will  hab  to  be 
buhnt  up.  Go  'long,  git  dat  baby  an'  call  de 


res'." 


At  midnight  I  was  crouched  outside  of 
the  cabin.  The  tide  of  joy  had  swept  into 
the  hearts  of  all  and  filled  them ;  all  slept 
but  me.  I  tapped  lightly  on  the  little  win- 
dow, and  Mammy  came  to  the  door,  opened 
it  a  crack,  and  peered  out  into  the  night. 

"  It 's  me,"  I  whispered,  creeping  close  to 
her.  "  Let  me  come  in  just  to  look  at  him 
for  one  minute,  one  second." 

Mammy  closed  the  door  behind  her  and 
crouched  down  on  the  step,  her  big  body 
guarding  the  entrance. 

"  He  's  asleep,"  she  said  shortly,  "  an'  ain't 
nobody  gwine  'sturb  him." 

The  light  from  the  little  window  shone 
on  my  face  where  I  stood,  my  hand  against 
the  wall.  Mammy  looked  at  me  long  and 
earnestly.  I  could  see  the  glow  of  her  eyes 
in  the  dusk. 

329 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  No,  you  ain't  gwine  ter  see  him  to-night." 
I  choked  back  the  catch  in  my  breath.  "  Ef 
you  was  to  stan'  by  his  baid,  ef  you  was  to 
fly  dyar  an'  hover  over  him  an'  look  at  him 
wid  dem  eyes,  you  'd  wake  him.  You  'd  call 
his  soul  back  ef  't  was  slippin'  erway.  'T  ain't 
no  lovin'  he  wants  now,  't  is  res',  jes  res'. 

"  I  done  fixed  him  up  good,"  she  went  on 
after  a  while.  "  I  done  buhnt  ebery  las'  rag 
o'  his  clothes  an'  I  done  got  some  ole  ones 
Marse  Willum  give  'Zekiel  all  ready  —  I  holt 
on  to  'em  spite  o'  all  dis  trapsin'  an'  goin'  on. 
Go  'long  to  de  house  an'  git  some  sleep. 
Ise  gwine  set  by  de  fiah  an'  watch  him  all 
night  long." 

"  Let  me  stay  here,  outside  !  " 

"  I  'clare  to  goodness  I  did  think  you  'd 
got  some  sense  dese  las'  days.  No  longer 
dan  dis  ebenin'  you  thought  he  was  daid, 
daid  an'  buried  somewhars  whar  you'd  nebbah 
eben  know  de  spot.  An'  now  he 's  hyar 
sleepin'  peaceable,  an'  you  a-standin'  hyar 
cotchin'  yo'  death  o'  col'.  Honey,  you  's  got 
a  heap  to  lib  fer.  'T  is  time  you  was  begin- 
nin'  to  tek  cyar  o'  yo'se'f." 
330 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

I  had  sense  enough  left  to  go  back  into 
the  house,  but  not  to  bed.  By  dawn  I  was 
again  at  the  cabin  door,  but  Mammy  had 
for  my  low  step  the  same  caution :  "  He  's 
asleep ! " 

So  he  lay  through  that  day  and  night  and 
into  the  next.  Once  or  twice  he  had  aroused 
and  Mammy  had  put  the  hot  milk  she  had 
ready  to  his  lips ;  he  drank  eagerly  and  sank 
back  again  to  slumber. 

"  'T  is  de  very  bes'  thing  fer  him,"  she 
declared ;  "  de  Lawd  done  took  Marse  Robert 
in  His  han's,  Marse  Robert  is  a-restin'  an' 
a-gettin'  well  at  de  same  time.  Praise  de 
Lawd !  Glory  hallelujah  !  " 

We  went  about  in  a  trance  of  joy  and 
expectancy.  That  night  we  slept  the  sound 
sleep  of  the  rejoicing ;  the  next  day,  as  I  sat 
in  my  room,  the  baby  playing  at  my  feet,  the 
door  was  pushed  softly  open ;  Robert  stood 
there. 

His  sunken,  dark  eyes  flamed  as  they  met 
mine ;  his  gaze  searched  me  from  head  to 
foot.  I  had  had  no  consciousness  of  myself, 
but  as  he  gazed  I  knew  that  my  hair  had 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

whitened  at  the  temples,  that  my  dress  was 
worn  to  raggedness,  my  shoes  to  holes.  The 
wave  of  consciousness  swept  away.  I  was 
aware  of  nothing  but  him.  So  for  a  breath's 
space  we  gazed  at  one  another,  then  with  a 
cry  of  joy  I  sprang  toward  him. 


332 


XXVI 

THERE  was  little  that  Robert  would 
ever  tell  of  his  prison  life  or  his  es- 
cape, and  that  little  was  in  broken 
snatches ;  once  only  he  spoke  freely.  Father 
was  there  that  night,  and  Emily  and  Henry 
—  they  had  been  married  as  soon  as  he  re- 
turned disabled.  It  was  spring-tide  again,  and 
the  winds,  low  and  languid,  stole  through  the 
hall  where  we  sat  —  Emily  and  the  men  near 
the  door,  I  on  the  step  where  I  could  watch 
the  baby  playing  in  the  path.  The  jonquils 
bloomed  on  the  border,  the  grass  was  yellow 
with  dandelions,  and  from  the  distant  swamp 
came  the  chorus  of  the  frogs'  hoarse  croaking. 
When  I  turned  I  could  see  Mammy  moving 
slowly  and  contentedly  about  the  kitchen, 
'Zekiel  smoking  his  pipe  at  the  cabin  door, 
and  Dick  coming  up  from  the  pasture. 

Father  settled  comfortably  down  into  his 
chair  and  lighted  his  pipe.     He  had  stayed 
333 


CALLED   TO    THE    FIELD 

with  the  army  to  the  last  day  of  its  bitter 
defeat,  had  come  home  unscathed,  and  with 
a  will  and  vigor  undiminished.  "  Well,"  he 
began,  "  they  have  settled  the  question  for 
us,  now  let  them  look  out.  I  can't  say  that 
I  think  it  is  the  best  way,"  sarcastically ;  "  but 
it  is  done.  The  negroes  are  free,  so  am  I. 
I  can  pick  and  hire  my  own  hands  now." 

"  Whom  are  you  going  to  have  ?  "  Robert 
asked. 

"  Hm !  I  don't  know  that  I  have  exactly 
decided."  Father's  face  reddened  at  the  ad- 
mission and  at  the  laughter  which  followed 
it ;  for  we  all  knew  that  his  very  first  care  had 
been  for  the  worst,  the  laziest,  and  the  least 
likely  to  provide  for  themselves  of  those 
servants  left. 

The  talk  ran  on  like  that  of  all  eventful 
hours,  —  rapid  sometimes,  then  short  with 
long  silences  between.  It  veered  to  the 
battle  in  which  Robert  fell. 

"  I  saw  you  fall ;  I  thought  you  were  shot," 
declared  Henry. 

"  I  thought  so  myself,"  Robert  admitted, 
with  a  short  laugh  ;  "  but  it  was  Lady.  Poor 
334 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

horse!  she  had  saved  my  life  many  a  time 
before,  and  she  saved  it  then.  She  plunged 
forward  so  suddenly  that  she  carried  me  with 
her,  and  I  fell  crumpled  up  under  her  side. 
I  broke  my  arm,  and  I  suppose  I  fainted. 
When  I  came  to,  a  man  was  pulling  at  my  leg ; 
thought  I  was  dead,  but  wanted  to  make  sure. 
He  was  good  enough  when  he  found  out  I 
was  n't.  Got  a  rag  from  somewhere,  tied  up 
my  arm,  and  —  and  then  I  was  a  prisoner. 
I  did  n't  have  any  too  many  clothes  on,  you 
remember  how  we  had  gotten  ? "  to  Henry, 
who  nodded  a  reply.  "  I  had  an  old  brim  of 
a  hat  left,  and  there  were  soles  to  my  shoes  — 
but  little  else."  He  laughed  ruefully  at  the 
remembrance.  "  Well,  they  marched  us  down 
to  the  river,  out  on  the  wharf,  and  there  they 
kept  us  waiting  for  ten  hours  —  not  a  mouth- 
ful to  eat,  not  a  drop  to  drink.  The  sun 
scorched  down  on  us,  packed  there  like  sar- 
dines, and  on  the  sand  and  the  water  —  and  I 
was  fair  dead  for  a  drop  of  it,  sweet  and  fresh. 
"  The  boat  came  at  last  to  take  us  to 
Lookout,  you  know.  They  marched  us  on  —  " 
Robert's  voice  broke,  I  turned  my  face  away. 
335 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  They  marched  us  two  by  two  up  the  gang- 
plank. The  officer  in  charge  and  the  captain 
were  leaning  over  the  railing.  I  never  lifted 
my  eyes  as  I  fell  into  line  and  marched  up 
the  plank.  I  heard  an  oath  ripped  out,  and 
then,  '  My  God,  it 's  Aylett ! '  I  looked  up. 
It  was  Marsden ;  I  knew  him  in  New  York, 
you  know. 

"  By  the  time  I  got  inside  he  was  there  by 
the  stairway  and  had  me  by  the  arm.  I  was 
half  dead,  but  I  had  sense  enough  to  go  with 
him  as  he  pulled  me,  and  he  was  cursing  a 
blue  streak  right  along.  But  I  knew  mighty 
well  when  I  had  looked  once  at  him  —  Well, 
I  expect  we  all  felt  that  way  once  or  twice 
these  last  few  years.  He  took  me  to  his 
stateroom,  locked  the  door.  '  God !  Aylett,' 
he  said,  '  what  do  you  want  ?  ' 

"  I  stumbled  over  to  the  water  pitcher  and 
drained  it.  I  laughed  as  I  sat  down  on  the 
side  of  the  bunk  and  thrust  out  my  feet. 

"'Clothes?' 

" '  Something  to  eat.' 

"  When  he  came  back  I  was  snoring.  He 
shook  me  up,  put  the  plate  on  my  knees. 
336 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

I  ate,  he  questioned.  Henry,  what  a  good 
thing  soap  and  water  and  towels  are !  He 
put  them  in  place,  tumbled  out  a  suit  of  his 
own  clothes,  went  out,  and  locked  the  door 
on  me.  It  is  a  good  thing  there  was  no  one 
on  that  boat  who  dared  disobey  him.  I  be- 
lieve he  would  have  fought  if  they  had.  And 
he  did  n't  forget  the  other  men,  either ;  they 
had  enough  to  eat  for  once. 

"Well!"  He  came  to  the  doorway,  knocked 
the  ashes  from  his  pipe,  looked  down  at  me 
and  at  the  baby  playing  in  the  path.  "  I  lost 
those  clothes  soon  enough." 

They  questioned  him  of  his  prison,  but  he 
answered  shortly,  "  It  was  hell ;  "  and  that  was 
all  he  would  say  till  pressed  for  his  escape. 

"  It  will  do  no  harm  now,"  he  admitted ; 
"  the  man  is  safe  at  home.  You  will  never 
know  — "  But  the  very  thought  of  those 
prison  days  sealed  his  lips.  He  let  slip  no 
word  of  description  as  he  had  started  to  do. 
Instead,  "  I  was  sitting  in  front  of  my  tent 
one  day,  stripped  —  took  off  my  shirt  to  get 
rid  of  unpleasant  visitors  —  I  told  you  it  was 
no  nice  tale." 

22  337 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  Go  on,"  said  Henry,  shortly,  and  father 
leaned  forward  in  his  chair. 

"It  was  hot  enough  —  baking,  steaming, 
killing  hot.  I  was  doing  the  best  I  could 
when  the  officer  of  the  day  turned  the  corner 
—  and  there  I  was.  I  looked  queer,  so  did 
he ;  then  he  said  kind  of  awkwardly,  '  Go 
ahead !  Go  ahead !  I  like  to  see  you  try  to 
keep  clean.'  I  had  to  laugh,  and  I  roared  ; 
so  did  he.  That  was  just  before  I  had  the 
fever."  I  turned  quickly;  he  had  told  me 
nothing  of  it.  "  Yes,  I  had  the  fever,  and  I 
could  n't  get  well.  The  men  sickened  and 
died  like  flies  around  me.  I  would  n't  do 
either,"  grimly ;  "  die  or  get  well.  I  saw  that 
officer  watching  me  many  a  day.  There  was 
nothing  he  could  do  for  me,  but  somehow  — 
One  day  I  was  dragging  my  feet  along  out 
beyond  the  tents  and  I  met  him.  There 
was  no  one  within  ten  yards  of  us  and  the 
guard  had  his  back  turned.  He  stopped 
short  '  Aylett,'  he  asked,  quick  as  a  flash, 
'is  there  anybody  at  home  waiting  for 
you  ? ' 

"  'My  wife.'  I  gazed  steadily  back  at  him, 
338 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

right  into  his  eyes.     I  knew  something  was 
coming,  and  it  did,  quick. 

" '  There  is  to  be  an  exchange  of  prisoners 
to-morrow  morning.  You  are  not  one  of  them, 
but  I  am  going  to  call  the  roll.  Hang  around 
close,  fall  in  as  they  march  out;  don't  look  at 
me,  I  will  be  ticking  them  off.  Don't  turn 
your  head  or  speak  a  word,  you  will  be  shot 
if  you  're  found  out.  It 's  risky,  but  —  No, 
hush !  I  can't  stand  your  face,  man.  I  feel 
as  if  I  were  committing  murder  when  I  look 
at  you.  I  want  you  out  of  sight.' 

"  I  was  there.  I  looked  at  him  when  I 
crowded  close  and  fell  into  step ;  but  he 
never  lifted  his  eyes  after  one  last  rapid 
glance  at  us  all.  That  is  all." 

"  How  did  you  get  home?  " 

"  The  best  way  I  could." 

No  one  seemed  to  have  anything  to  say 
after  that.  Father  went  off  to  talk  to  Maria, 
and  Emily  and  Henry  followed  him.  Robert 
came  out  to  the  step  and  put  his  hand  on  my 
head. 

"  I  want  to  see  your  eyes,"  he  declared 
whimsically. 

339 


CALLED    TO    THE    FIELD 

"  I  am  not  crying,"  I  declared. 

"Of  course  not,"  stoutly,  "why  should  you?" 
But  he  sat  down  by  me  and  pulled  my  head 
to  his  shoulder ;  the  baby  toddling  up  put  a 
dimpled  hand  on  his  knee  and  his  own  closed 
over  it. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  sad  for,"  he  said 
bravely ;  "  all  my  work  is  lost "  —  fenceless 
yard  and  uncultivated  fields  told  him  that  — 
"  and  all  my  money  would  not  buy  a  bushel 
of  wheat,  but  —  God !  I  am  at  home  and 
you  are  here !  " 

"  And  the  jonquils  are  abloom,"  sang  my 
heart,  "and  the  cherries  reddening;  "  and  by 
my  side  the  trampled  rose-vine  straggled 
upwards,  holding  forth  a  rose. 

And  looking  at  Robert,  the  flush  of  health 
on  his  thin  cheek,  at  the  baby's  rosy  face 
against  his  knee,  I  knew  there  is  one  mirror 
of  heaven  on  earth,  and  its  setting  is  neither 
wealth  nor  fame  —  it  is  love. 


340 


By  the  Author  of  "  Called  to  the  Field  " 

A  GIRL  OF  VIRGINIA 

By  LUCY  MEACHAM  THRUSTON.     Illustrated. 
12mo.     $1.50 

A  delightful  present-day  romance,  with  its  scenes  located 
in  the  Old  Dominion  State.  "  One  could  scarcely  find  a  more 
delightful  heroine  than  the  pretty  daughter  of  a  professor 
of  the  University  of  Virginia,  Frances  Holloway,  who  is 
the  same  lovable,  high-spirited  young  woman  one  so  often 
meets  in  real  life,  but  for  some  reason  or  other  so  seldom  in 
stories,"  says  the  St.  Louis  Globe-Democrat.  "  The  best  story 
of  college  life  from  the  townspeople's  point  of  view  that 
has  been  written  in  a  long  time." 

"  Not  too  light  nor  yet  too  tragic  —  with  a  wholesome 
out-of-door  flavor,"  says  the  Boston  Journal,  while  the  New 
York  Commercial  Advertiser  says  "the  author  has  given  us 
a  picture  of  modern  girlhood  that  goes  straight  to  the  heart 
and  stays  there." 

By  the  same  Author 

MISTRESS  BRENT 

A  Story  of  Lord  Baltimore's  Colony  in  1638 
Illustrated.     12mo.     $1.50 

The  story  is  an  interesting  study  of  the  life  of  the  col- 
onists, and  has  seldom  been  excelled  as  a  picture  of  early 
Maryland's  history.  —  Baltimore  News. 

No  more  able  or  remarkable  woman  figures  in  early 
colonial  history.  The  author  has  splendid  material  at 
hand  and  uses  it  with  commendable  accuracy.  —  The  Outlook, 
New  York. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &f  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 
BOSTON,  MASS. 


By  the  Author  of  "  Called  to  the  Field  " 


WHERE  THE  TIDE 
COMES  IN 


By  LUCY  MEACHAM  THRUSTON 

Author  of  "  Mistress  Brent,"  "  Where  the  Tide  Comes  In,' 

"  Called  to  the  Field"  etc. 
Illustrated.     12mo.     Cloth.     $1.50. 


A  novel  with  a  fine  Southern  atmosphere. — Book  News, 
Philadelphia. 

Mrs.  Thruston  gave  her  readers  a  charming  portrayal  of 
individual  femininity  of  the  Southern  type  in  "  A  Girl  of 
Virginia,"  but  that  girl  at  her  best  was  no  possible  match 
for  Page  Nottoway,  the  captivating  heroine  of  "Where  the 
Tide  Comes  In." — Baltimore  Herald. 

A  novel  of  dramatic  force,  with  a  good  plot,  characters 
which  are  distinct  and  consistent  throughout  in  the  draw- 
ing, and  a  setting  which  is  original  and  effective.  The 
heroine,  Page  Nottoway,  is  a  typical  American  girl. — NeiL 
York  Times. 

The  heroine,  Page,  is  dainty,  sweet,  proud,  and  everything 
else  that  goes  with  the  scenery.  The  novel  is  well  entitled 
to  a  place  among  those  tales  of  contemporary  life  which 
possess  value  because  of  the  author's  actual  knowledge. 
—  Chicago  Tribune. 

"Written  in  a  style  whose  quality  is  far  superior  to  that 
of  either  "  A  Girl  of  Virginia  "  or  "  Mistress  Brent."  .  .  . 
The  local  color  is  remarkably  good.  — Baltimore  Sun. 


LITTLE,    BROWN,   &   CO.,    PUBLISHERS 
254  WASHINGTON  STREET,  BOSTON 


A  New  Novel  by  the  Author  of  "  Quo  Vadis  " 


ON  THE  FIELD 
OF  GLORY 


By   HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ 

Author  of  "  Knights  of  the  Cross,"  "  With  Fire  and  Sword," 
"  The  Deluge,"  "  Quo  Vadis,"  etc. 

Translated  from  the  Polish  by  Jeremiah  Curtin 
12rao.     Decorated  Cloth,  $1.50 


This  important  work  is  the  only  one  written  by  this 
renowned  author  since  the  year  1900,  when  he  completed 
"Knights  of  the  Cross."  The  scenes  are  laid  in  Poland, 
and  the  period  is  the  reign  of  the  famous  King  John 
Sobieski,  just  before  the  Turkish  invasion  in  1682  to  1683. 
Sienkiewicz  has  woven  a  wonderful  romance  of  great 
brilliancy  and  strong  character  drawing,  and  in  no  book 
by  the  author  of  "Quo  Vadis"  has  he  displayed  his  great 
genius  more  strikingly. 

He  tells  a  charming,  tender,  and  passionate  love-story 
of  remarkable  intensity,  and  gives  the  reader  acquaintance 
with  characters  not  inferior  in  vigor  and  interest  to  those 
of  the  great  trilogy.  The  complete  work  has  been  trans- 
lated by  Jeremiah  Curtin. 


LITTLE,   BROWN,   &   CO.,    PUBLISHERS 
254  WASHINGTON  STREET,  BOSTON 


A  Distinctive  Modern  Romance 


MAID  OF  ATHENS 


By  LAFAYETTE   McLAWS 

Author  of  "  When  the  Land  Was  Young,"  etc. 

12mo.     Decorated  Cloth,  $1.50 


A  romance  of  great  charm  dealing  with  Lord  Byron's 
career  in  Greece,  his  poems  "Thyrza"  and  "Maid  of 
Athens"  furnishing  the  talented  novelist  with  the  germ 
of  a  love-story  which  will  appeal  to  many  besides  those 
interested  in  the  poet's  romantic  life.  The  scenes  on  the 
Bosphorus  and  in  the  Imperial  harem  at  Stamboul,  the 
attempted  rising  of  the  Greeks  against  the  Turks,  and 
Lord  Byron's  love  for  the  "  Maid  of  Athens,"  are  pictured 
with  great  vividness  and  power,  and  Thyrza,  the  daughter 
of  a  Greek  patriot,  is  one  of  the  most  lovable  creations  of 
modern  romantic  fiction. 

Readers  of  "  When  the  Land  Was  Young  "  need  not  be 
told  that  Miss  McLaws  is  gifted  with  a  wealth  of  creative 
imagination.  Her  new  book  is  laden  with  the  atmosphere 
of  the  early  nineteenth  century,  and  it  is  a  living,  breathing 
woman  whose  love  and  sorrows  thrill  us  in  this  story. 
Byron  himself,  though  vividly  present  in  these  pages,  is 
second  in  interest  to  the  lovely  Greek  girl  Thyrza,  who  is 
depicted  with  a  sympathetic  touch  due  perhaps  to  the 
author's  Southern  birth  and  temperament. 


LITTLE,   BROWN,   &   CO.,    PUBLISHERS 
254  WASHINGTON   STREET,  BOSTON 


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